The Pursuit
by Hesperian
Summary: Young Jim Moriarty is no innocent as the wife of his mathematics professor is about to discover. Moriarty rises from a mere student to a criminal consultant while pursuing a love affair that could end up costing him everything. Pre Sherlock to Season 3.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Is Jim Moriarty capable of feelings that range beyond icy cool superiority, narcissism, and blazing rage? What sort of woman could fall in love with a man who is at best a high functioning sociopath and, even worse, possibly a high functioning psychopath?

Disclaimer: BBC, Moffat, and Mr. Gatiss own it all aside from my few OCs.

* * *

_**Camberwell, London**_

_**March 19, 1994**_

Marilyn Lyle dusted her hands off against the rough texture of her apron. She glanced up at the artfully carved rooster on the wall; a smile curving her lips upward. The hands in the rust-colored belly of the bird indicated her husband would be home soon. She raised one dark eyebrow as she looked over her accomplishment of the day: c_oq-au-vin, grilled asparagus, homemade rolls, and strawberry torte._

Cooking was a passion of Marilyn's and she pursued it vigorously. More often than not, Edmund came home to find her elbow deep in dough or even fish guts as she butchered a mackerel herself. She had a small group of pots on the back terrace in lieu of the garden she had given up back home. Fragrant herbs and lush tomatoes stood as silent, colorful sentries on either side of the back door. She had no luck with flowers, but with vegetable and herb seeds she had a bumper crop every summer.

She missed the slumberous, rolling green hills of western Virginia. The sun would beat down darkening her pale skin to a dusky golden tone that she couldn't achieve here in the cool, grey climes of the UK.

Marilyn let her fingertips ghost across the chilly steel of the sink as she closed her eyes and remembered the crystalline waters of the New River.

A shrill ringing blasted her ears and she gasped.

Sighing, Marilyn moved across the small kitchen and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Sweetheart, I'm running a bit late." Edmund's rich voice rippled against her ear; instantly soothing her.

She wrapped the phone cord around her forefinger. "I made you a special dinner. I would hate for it to get cold."

He chuckled. "I won't be quite that late." A pause stretched out laying a sense of unease about him. "I decided to bring one of my students home for supper. I hope it won't be a problem."

Marilyn looked over at the dinner she had so carefully prepared. "Not at all, but I'm not sure a teenager is going to appreciate the menu."

"You might find yourself pleasantly surprised. I will be home shortly."

She carefully set the phone back in the cradle and reached behind her to untie the apron. With care, Marilyn placed the piece of clothing on a hook behind the kitchen door. Smoothing out her hair with her fingers, she allowed herself to relax.

Quiet-natured, Marilyn hadn't made many friends since her move to London. She was only twenty-five, but she felt a decade older… looked older as well. Edmund was forty-three and a handsome man who was faithful to a fault and established in life. He had friends he had known since his university days and they had been quick to erect a boundary she was never allowed to cross. They were pleasant enough to Marilyn's face yet they would never issue invitations to her unless Edmund was free to attend whatever activity or party they were planning. She suspected at least some of his friends considered her a gold digger.

She jogged up the stairs to the bedroom and changed from the dumpy jeans and frumpy sweatshirt Marilyn had been sporting into a more becoming outfit. She chose a simple navy-colored dress with a skirt that ended an inch below her knees and three quarter-length sleeves. Never one to enjoy overly feminine clothes, Marilyn preferred clean lines and good quality.

Not bothering to make up her face, Marilyn simply twisted her thick mane into a simple bun and pinned the mass at the base of her neck. Pinching her cheeks to give them some color, she frowned at herself in the mirror.

Shaking her head, Marilyn escaped back to the kitchen.

* * *

She had just managed to set the table when she heard the front door open.

"… I think you will be quite pleased. Marilyn is quite the budding chef. Every evening is a new culinary adventure and I believe this week she has been taking a page from Julia Child." Edmund's voice was filled with enthusiasm.

Warmth filled Marilyn's heart and she smiled.

Another voice, young and male, spoke with a distinctive, though light, Irish lilt. "I'm honored to be invited into your home, Professor Lyle."

"Anytime!" The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed and Marilyn envisioned Edmund giving his student a friendly slap on the shoulder. "After dinner we can have a more thorough discussion of your equation. I must admit my curiosity has been piqued."

Marilyn hesitated and fiddled with a napkin. She was deathly nervous around Edmund's students and fellow professors; once a young woman had spoken to Marilyn for ten minutes straight about a mathematical problem and Marilyn had no clue what the girl was talking about. Ignorance must have shown on her face because the girl had raised her eyebrows and smirked before excusing herself.

A hulking figure filled the doorway. "Sweetheart, come out and say hello." Edmund was dressed in his typical tweed jacket and dark trousers. He was smiling; his deep blue eyes twinkling. "Don't be shy."

Marilyn rolled her eyes even as a smile eased over her lips. She walked toward him and allowed her husband to sweep her into the lounge.

Edmund Lyle was a tall, broad man with dark golden blond hair that fell rakishly over one eye. He was quite fit and often bicycled in the Kent countryside on weekends with a few of his friends. Tonight he smelled of faded cologne and salty skin as though he had been perspiring. He looped one arm around her shoulders as he held her against him.

"Jim, this is my wife, Marilyn Lyle."

The young man staring out their front window, hands fisted in his jean pockets, turned toward them. He was only a few inches taller than she; with a whipcord lean body and unnaturally pale skin. His face was heart-shaped with a strong jaw and handsome features. Shiny, tousled sable hair and piercing, intelligent dark eyes completed his devilish appearance.

Marilyn felt instantly on edge as his mocha eyes started down at her feet and slowly edged their way up. She had the disconcerting sense he was cataloguing her thoroughly as though she were a painting or a vase he was considering as a purchase. Though he didn't linger at her hips or breasts, Marilyn felt uncomfortable.

When his eyes finally landed on hers, Marilyn had to fight _not_ to look away.

There was such intensity in that shrewd gaze…

He suddenly smiled exposing a mouthful of beautiful white teeth. "I'm honored to finally meet you, Mrs. Lyle. The professor has told me so much about you."

Edmund squeezed her arm gently. "Marilyn, may I present my best pupil, Jim Moriarty."

The boy held out his hand to her. "I must admit I am looking forward to sampling some of your culinary wares, Mrs. Lyle. I haven't had a home cooked meal in quite some time."

She took his hand reluctantly; forcing herself to make the physical connection. "I hope the reality lives up to the hype." Marilyn glanced at her husband who shrugged and flashed a sheepish grin in her direction.

Jim Moriarty was still holding her hand – the grip firm, but not bruising. His smile was still stretched across his face like that of the Cheshire Cat. There was something _unnatural_ about him though Marilyn was having a hard time to determine exactly what was off.

"So far I am not disappointed." He released her hand and forced his hands deep in his pockets.

Marilyn's palm tingled from where the young man had clenched it. She suddenly felt a chill which pimpled the flesh along the back of her hand before traveling up her arm; swathing her in coolness and a strange sense of loss. She curled her arms around her middle.

"Shall we retire to the kitchen?"

Edmund sighed and checked his watch. "I need to make a quick call to Harry Twilett about young Jim here." Upon catching Marilyn's shocked expression, his face reddened. "Jim is hoping to attend Imperial College next semester, sweetheart. Surely supper can wait a few minutes… better yet, start without me!"

"Edmund…"

He held his hands out to Marilyn beseechingly. "I really need to speak with Harry. Jim is capable of keeping you company for a few minutes."

"I promise I won't bite."

She looked across the lounge at Jim.

He was watching her with a strange, ominous dead stare that Marilyn was sure could cause songbirds to fall silent.

Marilyn merely nodded and watched Edmund's broad back retreat upstairs to his private study. They had a two bedroom flat on Vicarage Street in Camberwell: a small place with two floors, one rather cramped bathroom with hideous teal tile, a spacious kitchen, and small lounge. Due to the size of the lounge, she and Edmund had converted the smaller bedroom upstairs into an office where he could work.

"You are wearing _Bluebell_," Jim Moriarty fairly sang; his voice becoming a high falsetto. "Lovely perfume, I particularly enjoy the clove notes. I would never have taken you for a fan of Princess Diana."

"Come again?" Marilyn turned to find the young man only inches away. She tried to hold back her disconcertment by pressing her lips together in a straight line.

He smiled broadly; his dark eyes sharp like razors as he studied her. "Princess Diana wears _Bluebell_, I read an article about her in the Daily Mirror; though who knows if the trash that rag prints is accurate at all. Why are you afraid of me?"

The question was presented in a voice now low and rough and Jim Moriarty leaned forward as he asked until his nose nearly touched hers. He smelled of minty toothpaste, chalk, and a faint spice so vague she couldn't put a name to it.

Marilyn squared her shoulders and took a very deliberate step back from her husband's pupil. "I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Moriarty. Follow me please." She turned on her heel and strode into the kitchen.

"You practically reek with fear," he answered in a bored tone. "The only interesting part is why you would be afraid. After all, I've displayed nothing but charm."

Marilyn was afraid; she just couldn't put her finger on a reason. She marched over to the table in a clatter as her heels struck the wood floor. Turning, she indicated an empty chair to the smiling young man. "Please have a seat. Would you care for some tea perhaps?"

Jim Moriarty stood beside his chair and watched her. "Perhaps you could substitute a spot of wine instead of tea, Mrs. Lyle. I prefer a good, hearty red if you have some."

"You're eighteen if a day!" She sputtered. "I will do no such thing!"

He smirked. "Oh dear, I see you are under the illusion I'm some unsullied lad with not one ounce of experience in the world. Allow me to educate you, Mrs. Lyle. I graduated from primary school when I was fourteen and I've been attending Kings College for the past four years. I will be collecting a bachelor's degree in mathematics this spring and then I'm off to attend Imperial College in pursuit of my master's degree." Moriarty chuckled darkly. "I've seen a great deal, my dear, and I'm no sheltered innocent such as you. Might I have that wine now?"

Marilyn hesitated.

He raised one eyebrow and flashed a winning smile in her direction. "Pretty please?"

She moved to the shelf where she had set out a decent bottle of Beaujolais earlier to breathe. She picked up a nearby wine glass and poured. Once the glass was half full, Marilyn set it on the table beside him. "Are you going to obtain your doctorate?"

Jim slid down into his chair and lifted the glass to his nose. He breathed deeply before letting his eyes drift closed. "Lovely," he murmured before drinking.

Marilyn poured herself a glass and sat across from him.

He savored the wine almost passionately before opening his eyes. Setting the glass on the table, Jim leaned back in his chair. "Oh, I suppose I will nip over to Oxford and get my PhD." He wrinkled his nose; reaching out and letting one long finger trace the stem of his glass. "Rather boring, in my opinion, but it seems expected of me."

Marilyn frowned. "You aren't excited by the thought of becoming a professor or an engineer?"

"Not particularly," Jim answered. "I have other interests I intend to pursue one day. Enough about me, Mrs. Lyle, I'm much more interested in you at the moment."

"Me?" She almost dropped her glass; slopping wine over the rim and onto her snowy tablecloth.

He folded his hands over his stomach. "Did I stutter?" Jim tilted his head. "You are seven years older than me and married to a man almost twenty years your senior. You dress like a fifty year old mother of five, despite having a rather luscious body, and you hide in your flat instead of living in the world like a normal person. I find you interesting."

Marilyn felt the blood drain from her face. "I don't hide in this flat…"

"You only leave if you have to shop, visit the bank, go to the doctor's office, or Professor Lyle needs you."

"How do you know all this?"

Jim shrugged casually. "I know a lot of things about many people, Mrs. Lyle."

She felt vaguely nauseous. "Have you followed me?"

"I prefer the term 'observing' to following." He tilted his head slightly; his dark eyes narrowing. "Fear is such a boring reaction, love. Ordinary people can be absolutely adorably clueless at times."

Marilyn turned away. "Stop it, please."

"I have no desire for your fear, Mrs. Lyle. I would like for us to become friends for lack of a better term."

"Why are you doing this, Mr. Moriarty?"

A snort broke free from his throat. "Mostly because I can and it amuses me. Come now, call me Jim."

"I prefer Mr. Moriarty," Marilyn replied quietly.

"James would be an improvement over the formal title, but your father's Christian name was James, wasn't it, Mrs. Lyle?" He wasn't smiling when Marilyn looked at him aghast. Instead, Moriarty wore a serene expression – his eyes were filled with sympathy. "I would stake my life on it that his nickname was Jim. Pity that." Moriarty suddenly brightened. "You can call me Jamie if you like."

"If you don't leave this moment, I'll go upstairs and tell Edmund you've been stalking me."

Jim Moriarty seemed nonplussed. "Go right ahead, Mrs. Lyle." He flung his fingers toward the doorway like he was chucking mud from his hand. "Edmund won't believe a word. In fact, he'll probably think you mad."

She stood.

"Then again, Edmund may be _very_ interested to know that his sweet wife has been depositing her weekly allowance in a secret bank account." He folded his hands together in his lap; the picture of a prim British schoolboy. "I bet you have quite the escape fund hidden away in that rainy day account. The interesting part is that you aren't going back to the United States. Funny, you didn't strike me as the sort to yearn for a villa in the Greek Isles."

Sickness clenched her stomach and Marilyn froze; watching Moriarty as closely as a hare watches a snake. "I have no idea what you mean."

A light burned in Moriarty's eyes like hellfire. "Don't bother lying to me, honey, I can read you like the proverbial book." He reached out and took her cold hand between his. "You and I are going to become very good friends, Marilyn."

"Please," she whispered as she pulled away from him. "Leave me alone, Mr. Moriarty…"

"Jamie," he intoned gravely. "Call me Jamie, Marilyn. I want to hear you say it."

Marilyn was horrified beyond words. She froze; the tick of the wall clock echoed in her ears as her heart pounded madly in her chest. "Mrs. Lyle," she corrected quietly. "Don't touch me."

He winced before an abnormally wide smile stretched his lips to the point he looked pained. "Tough little cookie, aren't you, honey?" The Irish brogue in his voice thickened. "One day, you're going to beg me to touch you."

She curled her fingers into her skirt. Drawing in a deep breath, Marilyn rose and went to the oven. She tugged on a pair of mitts and pulled out the casserole dish. Busying herself with preparing the plates, Marilyn kept her mind firmly on the task at hand.

Jim Moriarty stayed in his chair… humming. The sound was annoyingly cheerful.

Marilyn froze for a moment before continuing with trembling hands.

* * *

The food had been lovely, the wine heavenly, and the company jovial enough.

Marilyn had been silent for most of the meal; answering Edmund when he asked the occasional question.

Most of the evening, Edmund and Jim Moriarty had been engaged in intense conversation over a mathematical equation that she couldn't make heads or tails of. Moriarty had treated her with the utmost decorum to the point Marilyn almost couldn't believe his earlier behavior in Edmund's absence.

After Jim Moriarty left, Marilyn had cleaned up and excused herself. She took a long, hot bath that left her skin a rosy red. She scrubbed herself thoroughly and rubbed some cocoa butter into her skin. Without considering the cost, Marilyn took her expensive bottle of _Bluebell_ perfume and tossed it on her waste bin.

Edmund was already in bed reading when she slid between the sheets beside him.

He set his book against his chest and regarded her over the rims of his reading glasses. "You seem out of sorts this evening, sweetheart. May I ask why?"

"I'm just tired," Marilyn replied quietly as she turned on her side.

"I think you need to get out more." Edmund hesitated. "Jim offered to take you to the museum of your choice. I think you should take him up on the offer. When was the last time you went out and had fun?"

She bit her lip; the thought of being alone with Jim Moriarty again was horrifying to her. "Why did he offer to take me anywhere?"

"Jim wants to better acquaint himself with all the amenities London has to recommend. The boy has spent his time in this city with his nose buried in books. I told him you were interested in art and Jim was excited by the idea of having a companion for a little tourism."

Marilyn picked at a loose thread on her pillowcase. "Don't you think it strange that an adolescent boy has any interest in going to museums with your wife?"

Edmund snorted. "Don't behave like a narcissistic nutter, Marilyn. Jim Moriarty is homosexual."

Shock crackled along Marilyn's skin and headed straight up her spine like a jolt of lightening. "Are you certain?"

"He was caught in a compromising position with a male classmate last semester. Trust me; they weren't playing cards in the janitorial closet. Moriarty was lucky he didn't face expulsion like that other poor bloke."

"Oh." Marilyn wasn't sure what else to say. Edmund's comments made her feel guilty and unsure if she had misinterpreted Jim Moriarty's earlier behavior.

Edmund sighed. "So will you go with Jim? He could use the company and so could you."

Marilyn nestled into the blankets. "I'll think on it." She still meant to say no, but at least she was giving Edmund the illusion she might agree.


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks had passed since the nightmarish dinner with Edmund and Jim Moriarty. Marilyn had gone back to her soothing routine of running errands in the morning, cleaning mid-day, and preparing dinner for Edmund in the afternoon. For the first few days after Moriarty showed interest in visiting a museum with her, Edmund had proved obsessive about the idea; needling her endlessly.

Finally, one evening after he returned and found no dinner and Marilyn sequestered in their bedroom with the door locked, Edmund understood she was very firmly refusing.

He had not mentioned either Moriarty or her need to leave the flat since.

The April air was brisk and fresh as it washed over her face.

Marilyn smiled and pulled her coat more firmly around her; purse dangling from the crook of her elbow. Each step against the concrete caused the leather bag to bounce against her hip. She had just finished up at the bank. Her latest deposit was one hundred twenty pounds. Not a tremendous amount, but every little bit helped.

Vicarage Grove was filled with the sound of traffic, pedestrians calling to one another, and the occasional bird song. With the bright blue sky above and the verdant newness of leaves just beginning to unfurl for the season, she felt like anything was possible.

She approached her building and fished in her coat pocket for her keys.

A chillingly familiar voice stopped her cold at the front door. "Mrs. Lyle, long time, no see as they say in America."

Marilyn was frozen with indecision. If she screamed and made a scene, most likely Jim Moriarty would feign innocence so convincingly that she might end up in a mental ward somewhere. She kept her hand in her pocket, fingers curled around her keys.

She took a deep breath and turned.

Jim Moriarty was not ten feet behind her on the paved walk. He was smiling broadly and holding a large cluster of daisies tied with a blue gingham ribbon. Dressed in olive khakis, a thin black jumper, and a navy-colored jacket which had seen better days; Moriarty seemed as normal as any other boy his age.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Moriarty?"

He jiggled the bouquet a little as he neared her. "I have been thinking about my atrocious behavior. I wanted to offer my sincere apologies." Moriarty's smile died a little. "I just wanted us to be friends, Mrs. Lyle. Your husband talks about you so often that I feel like I know you. I realize that my efforts were… overzealous."

Marilyn felt for the first time since she met Jim Moriarty a sense of normalcy about him. The intensity he had displayed the night of their dinner was absent; instead he seemed subdued.

She accepted the bouquet. "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. Apology accepted."

He nodded absently and scanned the street before turning his dark gaze on her. "Might I come in for a moment?" Upon seeing her uncertain, incredulous look, Moriarty held up his palms. "I just want to talk and maybe use your loo."

Marilyn glanced at the merry flowers that seemed to smile up at her. She had always loved daisies; they were her favorite flower. Keeping an air of seriousness around her, she nodded. "Come in."

Pulling out the keys, she unlocked the door and allowed Moriarty entrance before following him in. She closed the door with her hip and locked it with one hand.

Moriarty glanced over at her before retreating further into the lounge. "Would you mind if I used the loo?"

She shook her head. "No, be my guest. The toilet is upstairs. I'll be in the kitchen."

The flowers were happily situated in a Waterford vase that hadn't seen a bouquet since she had been married. Smiling, Marilyn set the vase in the center of the table. She had just removed her coat and placed her purse on the counter when Moriarty appeared in the doorway.

He leaned one shoulder casually against the door jamb.

"So what are you really doing in Camberwell?" Marilyn asked quietly as she turned to him. "Edmund told me you room in one of the college dormitories. You are a long way from your stomping ground."

Moriarty was quiet; his eyes traveled over her face briefly. Oddly, she wasn't as afraid to be alone with him as she had previously thought she would be. Oh, she was nervous, but not frightened as she had been that first night.

"I am," he agreed softly. "You've made a lovely home here."

She nodded and pulled out a chair. "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. Would you care to have a seat?"

The young man hesitated before slowly crossing the room with an unconscious elegance she envied. He sank down in the chair and gazed at the flowers. He waited until she was seated before speaking. "Why did you pick him exactly?" Moriarty asked.

"Why did I marry Edmund?"

"Yes."

She shrugged and gave a small, thin smile. "He was kind to me and he told me about his adventures all over the world. I guess he swept me away with the idea I could have a different life from that of my friends."

"Interesting," he replied.

Marilyn made to stand. "Tea perhaps?"

Moriarty's hand shot out and wrapped firmly about her wrist. He never turned away from the daisy bouquet. "No, I would like to speak with you a little longer."

She looked down with surprise at his hand; the way his skin burned into her own sent a pleasant tingle up her arm. "Please let me go."

Jim Moriarty looked at her from the corner of his eye before releasing her. He planted his palm flat against the table; rubbing his forefinger sinuously against the wood in an abstract pattern. "Come with me to the Victoria and Albert Museum tomorrow afternoon."

"I shouldn't," Marilyn stated softly. "I have to make Edmund's dinner."

A smile which hinted of secrets untold slipped across his face. He finally turned his head fully in order to look at her. "So you have no objection to going aside from Professor Lyle missing a meal?"

"I don't believe a married woman should be alone in the company of a man she isn't married to."

His eyebrows arched and he tilted his head as he studied her. "I think you were born three centuries too late, Mrs. Lyle. Come with me tomorrow afternoon and I won't ask you again. I would rather look at the artwork with someone who appreciates it instead of one of the buffoons I room with." He leaned back in his chair. "I promise I am not a rapist or a pervert."

Marilyn's face grew hot under his watchful gaze. "I didn't say you…"

"Not in so many words," Moriarty replied. "Your attitude is very telling and my behavior at dinner was naughty at best. Forgive me for being young and brash. Come with me."

He looked in that moment like a normal teenage boy with no ulterior motives.

She stood and crossed to the kitchen cabinets. "Okay." Marilyn leaned back against the shelf and watched him.

Moriarty stood; he was strangely calm. "Brilliant. I will collect you tomorrow at noon, Mrs. Lyle."

Marilyn waited until he was edging past her. "How did you know I like daisies? I don't buy flowers."

He stopped and looked down at her; their bodies were only a breath apart. "Professor Lyle has a photograph of you on his desk. You are sitting in a field of daisies in the picture and I surmised you like that particular flower." Warmth poured off him and made her body flush in response. Moriarty was watching her closely. "Was I wrong?"

"No," she shook her head.

Jim Moriarty looked over at the flowers and back to her. "Good day, Mrs. Lyle. Give Professor Lyle my regards." He left without as much as a backward glance.

The front door closed and shook Marilyn out of the strange stupor she found herself in.

She ran her fingers over her face; embarrassed by the heat blazing in her cheeks. Taking a deep breath, Marilyn sought to calm her thundering heart. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Forcing herself to move, Marilyn crossed the room. "Make Edmund his dinner and stop thinking of Jim Moriarty."

* * *

Moriarty sat in the King's College library with a book of Machiavelli open before him. He wore headphones attached to a portable CD player sitting on the table beside him. The sound quality was utter shite but at least he was able to listen to the music he desired instead of the inane chatter of his fellow students.

Absently, he snapped the grape gum between his teeth as Vivaldi's Autumn III Allegro reached a crescendo.

The paper of the page scraping along the pads of his fingers was as much a distraction to him as the young co-ed spreading her thighs beneath one of the tables as the young man beside her looked around before casually reaching out to stroke her panty-clad quim; pushing aside her short skirt.

He raised one eyebrow and shook his head before returning his attention to the page. The words neatly typed in Latin swam before his eyes. "Bollocks," Moriarty muttered darkly before running a hand through his hair savagely.

A figure sat down across from him. "Jim…" The nasally voice cut straight through the beauty of the music meant to shield Moriarty from the obsequious presence of other people.

"Bog off, Sanderson," Jim groaned. "I'm far too knackered at the moment to listen."

The visage of Marilyn Lyle, which had haunted him all day, falling back against a bed of daisies evaporated like steam from a sauna.

Philip Sanderson was twenty-two, tall, painfully thin, with reddish pimples covering his chin like a rash from hell. He pushed a greasy mop of pale brown hair from his forehead. Weak grey eyes watched Jim from beneath a pair of thick glass lenses. "I thought you wanted me to tell you when Professor Lyle left his office."

Squeezing the bridge of his nose and praying for patience, Moriarty nodded. He shut off the music and removed his earphones. "Has he gone home for the evening?"

"Nah, he went to meet Professor Twilett over at Imperial College." Sanderson snorted. "I don't envy Lyle a jot. Twilett is a self-absorbed snob."

Sanderson was all gangly limbs and exceeding unpopularity with his peers due to his excessive love of arse-kissing Professor Lyle. He worked in Lyle's office and often graded exams and essays of lower classmen.

Moriarty didn't particularly care for Philip Sanderson, but he was a useful tool at his disposal; not unlike a paring knife. Sanderson knew all Lyle's foibles and more importantly, his comings and goings. All Moriarty had to do to obtain said information was feed Sanderson little nibbles of kindness and human dignity – something most of the other students were incapable of doing.

Sanderson drank up the decency Moriarty saw fit to dispense and never suspected it was all an act.

Jim Moriarty was a far better actor than he was a strategist or even a mathematician. He had discovered at an early age how to use his looks and charm to get just about anything he desired. Though he had the tendency to go overboard when excited and become painfully dramatic.

He found it hard to dial back his behavior when his excitement managed to get the better of him… as it did a few weeks earlier during his dinner at the Lyle home. Moriarty gritted his teeth and resolved not to think of his blunder.

"Thanks," Jim drew the word out so that his Irish accent became very apparent. "I owe you, Philip."

Moriarty stood and Sanderson followed suit.

"About owing me…"

"Oh sweet Fanny Adams," Jim breathed. "Our arrangement is tutoring on the third Saturday of every month. Today is Thursday."

Sanderson nodded. "I was thinking you might tell me what you are up to in Lyle's office."

Rage, black and primordial, swirled in Jim's chest. He pasted a bright smile on his face; fighting the urge to pick up his pen and bury it deep in Sanderson's temple. There were few things that truly pissed James Moriarty off royally but digging into his business was guaranteed to rile him every time.

It was particularly galling when the person doing the digging had the intellect of a flea riding on a dog's arse.

"Now we had an agreement between us that what I do in Lyle's office is my business."

Sanderson's face turned brick red upon hearing the sing-song quality in Jim's voice; a warning that Philip understood. "Sorry, Jim, I was just curious."

Moriarty's smile slipped. "Try not to be too inquisitive, dear fellow. Remember what happened to the cat."

"Satisfaction brought him back?" Sanderson asked with a weak chuckle.

'_God help me refrain from murdering all morons',_ Jim Moriarty thought to himself. He gathered his effects. "Very amusing, Sanderson, very amusing. I shall see you Saturday."

Sanderson was blessedly silent until he came across the table with the amorous couple Jim had observed earlier. "Blooming hell! You're fingering her in public, mate!"

Jim didn't bother to look; he simply continued out the door with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a small grin stretched across his mouth.

* * *

Professor Lyle's office was dark through the opalescent glass door panel facing him.

Jim pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door quickly. He ducked inside and locked the door behind him. Flicking on the lights, he set his backpack in one of the leather wing chairs facing Lyle's desk.

The office looked out over the Thames River and the street below. With the sun setting, the view was stunning with the twinkling lights of the city mingling with the dusky hues of the coming night sky. The rest of the office was typical: a large desk of gleaming dark wood dominated the center of the room with two wing chairs facing it, large bookshelves filled from top to bottom with different tomes on mathematics of all persuasion as well as some books on physics. The walls were painted a deep maroon and a dark carpet grounded the space.

Jim Moriarty had cleverly nicked Lyle's office key straight off the older man's desk when the professor was in the toilet down the hall. He had the key copied at a locksmith shop only a few blocks away from campus. The original key had been returned before Lyle had left for the evening.

Jim had spent the past two years exploring Edmund Lyle's life at his leisure. He knew how to bypass most of the poor security in place at the school. Whenever Jim needed to escape from the babbling fools in his dorm room, he either went to the library to study or Lyle's office to relax.

Rounding the desk, Jim noticed a file half-open in the center of the blotter.

Rubbing his chin, Jim made two important decisions: first he desperately needed a shave and second he was in the mood for a little exploration.

He didn't care for the term 'snooping' as it carried connotations of men in trench coats picking through waste bins on dark curbs. Jim preferred to think of what he was doing as exploring an opportunity that the good professor had given him.

'_If he didn't want me, or anyone else, looking at his files Lyle would at least lock them up.'_ He decided with a yawn.

Jim picked up the file and flipped it open. He grimaced and placed the file back in the position he found it in. "Some people have absolutely no taste whatsoever." Inside he had seen tickets to Disneyland in France. "I'll have nightmares of pixie dust for weeks."

Sniffing with disdain, he turned his attention to the picture that had managed to capture his attention two years earlier.

There in an elegantly scrolled iron frame was a large, glossy photo of a younger Marilyn Lyle. She was sitting in a meadow filled with verdant grass and daisies. Marilyn was seated with her legs pulled up to her chest and her golden arms looped around her knees. The smile she wore was painfully innocent and genuine; her eyes reflecting her happiness. Her clothes were simple and indicated to him a young woman of meager means – jean shorts and a petal pink tank top. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail that trailed over her shoulder.

She was attractive, he decided, though not beautiful.

Her mouth was a little too wide, her nose just a tad too long to lend her oval face and soft features the sort of loveliness women seemed to long for. Instead, Marilyn had the look of an unfinished Botticelli; flawed yet still intriguing.

When she smiled, her strawberry satin lips revealed small white pearls aside from a gap between her upper front teeth. The fact that some of her lowers were slightly crooked took away from what society deemed perfection.

Jim picked up the picture and sank back in Lyle's chair. "You are an unfinished work… my Norma Jean Baker." He had a slight obsession with Marilyn Monroe since his early childhood; her beauty was second to her ability to reinvent herself in his mind. "I'm going to fill in all the missing brush strokes."

He wanted to take Marilyn Lyle and draw her into what he envisioned as her full potential. The thought of recreating her inside and out was more arousing to Jim than any sexual fantasy.

Jim certainly had erotic visions of Marilyn Lyle and what he wanted to do to her. The aura of innocence she carried was what first attracted him to her picture, driving him to observe her in person over the last few years, making him lose his self-control when he finally met her in person. Jim found himself intrigued by the innate sweetness of her character. He was not innocent, but thoroughly corrupted. The difference between their natures was enticing to him.

Sex had a place in his life, and he enjoyed the act thoroughly, but he had strict rules governing sexual involvement. He had been sexually active since he was thirteen with males and females; he enjoyed both. Jim did _not_ enjoy romantic entanglements – he found them boring and trite. He used protection and made sure his partners understood there was not to be any sentiment involved.

The shrill ring of the phone interrupted his train of thought.

He frowned as the answering machine kicked on.

'_You have reached the office of Professor Edmund Lyle…'_

"Blah, blah, blah," Jim scoffed before snorting. "Can you be any more banal, Edmund?" He brightened as he looked at Marilyn's picture. "No, darling, I believe he has scraped the bottom of that barrel."

A throaty woman's voice came through; older with a Scottish accent. "Baby, you promised to visit me. I thought we were going to Paris for the weekend? Be a dear and call me, Eddie." The machine clicked off.

Jim's mouth fell wide open. "Somebody has been a very wicked Daddy." He closed his mouth and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "This is like manna from heaven." Looking at the photo of Marilyn, he shook his head before placing her back on Edmund's desk. "I think you can do better than this sorry git."

Making sure that he left Edmund's office in the same manner he found it, Jim grabbed his backpack and headed out after locking the door behind him.

He yawned on the way back to his dorm room. "This is going to be easy peasy."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Edmund noticed was the unusual amount of attention Marilyn had paid to her hair. She normally kept it pulled back in a bun or a ponytail. Today she had brushed the dark locks until they shone like fine silk; arranging the heavy mass into an attractive French braid that allowed delicate wisps to frame her face like a portrait.

She had arrayed herself in a daffodil-colored skirt that ended at the knee, an ivory lace short-sleeve shirt, and nude-colored sandals with a small wedge heel.

He leaned against the doorway and watched as Marilyn applied a thin layer of foundation before applying the rest of her makeup. It had been a very long time since he had seen her make a genuine effort with her appearance.

"You look lovely," Edmund remarked; keeping his voice light. "You changed your mind about Jim, eh?"

Her hazel eyes met his in the mirror. "He apologized and asked me to go with him to the Victoria and Albert museum. I realized I was being judgmental and silly." She smiled before applying a rose shade of lipstick. "I try so hard to forget…"

"I understand," Edmund winced at the brusque sound to his voice. Seeing her cheerful mood, the last thing he wanted was for her to start dredging up the past. He firmly believed the old British adage of a stiff upper lip. "You made the right decision and I hope you enjoy yourself."

She turned and regarded him with a look of trepidation. "I don't think I'll be home in time to make your dinner."

Edmund pulled her into his arms and smiled as the sweet, light scent of vanilla surrounded him. "I have enough work this evening to keep me quite busy. Takeaway for one evening won't kill me."

Marilyn pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Thank you."

The doorbell interrupted his reply.

He smiled at her and stepped back. "Go ahead and finish getting ready. I'll greet Jim." Edmund jogged down the stairs easily; careful not to trip himself.

Opening the door wide, Edmund smiled at the young man standing there. "Jim, come in." He extended his hand and Jim grasped it firmly enough to make Edmund grimace. "Delightful to see you off campus."

Jim was staring at him with cold, dark eyes like those of a shark. He was chewing gum as he looked at Edmund. "You have a little something on your jaw, mate."

Embarrassment flooded Edmund and he wiped his fingers over the offending spot; coming away stained a dusty rose. "So it seems," he chuckled. "Marilyn is excited. I'm thrilled you managed to talk her into leaving the neighborhood."

Jim's eyes were friendly as Edmund met his gaze again. He released Edmund's hand and shoved both fists in his pockets. "Really? This is excellent news, Professor Lyle. I was sure she would change her mind."

Edmund rubbed his hand as he studied the boy he was grooming for a future professorship.

Jim Moriarty had shaved so that his milky skin appeared as soft as a baby's arse. He had taken care to style his hair with gel; pushing it back from his face. He wore a black suit, obvious, to Edmund at least, to be second hand but still stylish. A powder blue shirt with a red silk tie rounded out the ensemble. The only item out of place was the black converse sneakers peeking out from beneath the dark hems of Moriarty's trousers.

In fact, Edmund smelled something he never had before in Moriarty's presence… cologne.

"No," Edmund forced himself to smile and remember that his protégé was doing him a favor by getting Marilyn out of the house. "Not at all, Jim. I believe she will be straight down. Cologne?"

Jim Moriarty's pale cheeks burned in the pale light of the foyer. "One of my mates let me take a splash." He leaned forward, his eyes cast down sheepishly. "_Polo_."

Edmund chuckled.

"You look lovely." The breathless tone in his pupil's voice gave Edmund pause. He knew Moriarty to be homosexual, but there was something different about him on this day that Edmund couldn't pinpoint.

Marilyn was descending the stairs looking more elegant than she had since the day of their nuptials. She wore a nervous expression; the pinched look about her eyes told Edmund she was still uncomfortable around people she didn't know well.

He sincerely hoped that young Moriarty would be able to draw her out in a manner Edmund had failed to achieve. Smiling he hugged his wife again before taking her arm and tucking it into that of Jim Moriarty. "Be sure to take very good care of my wife and treat her with care, Jim."

"I promise I will treat her like a queen," Moriarty replied before looking down into Marilyn's face. "Are you ready to go? I'm afraid the budget demands we take the tube in."

She simply nodded and allowed Jim Moriarty to escort her out the front door.

Edmund stared at their backs as they walked to the pavement. From this angle, they looked like a young married couple. A sense of unease tingled along his spine as he watched them head toward the tube station and disappear out of sight.

He had the distinct feeling that he had just given Marilyn to the younger man.

If it weren't for Moriarty's blatant sexual preference, Edmund would have worried.

Instead he closed the door and picked up the phone. "Colleen, darling, about Paris…"

* * *

Moriarty had been quiet on the tube ride. He merely stood so close to Marilyn that all she could smell was leather and musk. He held an arm to steady her as people jostled them. She looked up at him and found Moriarty staring down at her; his gaze intense, his eyes barely blinking.

Marilyn rested her hands against his chest as a woman carrying a toddler bumped her.

"Mr. Moriarty…"

He smiled briefly as he chewed gum. "Aren't we beyond all the stick-up-the-arse propriety?" A surprisingly deep chuckle escaped his throat. "Call me Jamie."

There was hypnotic quality in the rich lilt of his voice; in the dark, mesmerizing depths of his eyes. Marilyn could feel his heart beating through his clothes into her palms. She couldn't move, was helpless to look away from him.

It was like a sickness had invaded her very being; infecting her with weakness.

"Jamie," she whispered.

He rested his cheek against hers. "You see how easy it is, Marilyn. Things don't have to be difficult for us. I want to be your friend." Moriarty pulled back. "I believe this is our stop."

She allowed him to take her hand and lead her up to the street. His grip was strong, yet surprisingly gentle as he led her down the street to the museum. He paid for their entry and refused to listen to her entreaties to save what quid he could.

Moriarty laughed as they entered the first gallery. "I invited you and custom dictates I pay. Don't make me give you a right bollocking." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side. "I may be a student, but I have enough to afford a decent day out."

Marilyn waited until they were in the mediaeval gallery before speaking. She kept her eyes pinned to seven hundred year old tapestry under glass as the words tumbled from her mouth unbidden. "You aren't gay, are you, Jamie?"

He laughed; the sound was like warm chocolate sliding into her ears. After a moment, he stopped laughing and cleared his throat. "I prefer not to label myself, Marilyn. I know who I'm attracted to and how to act on said attraction. Does this disturb you?"

"I'm not sure," she replied.

Moriarty shrugged. "Honest answer, I can't fault you for your opinions." He looked over at her. "How many times did he rape you?"

"Edmund never…"

Jim Moriarty rested a forefinger against her lips; the heat searing the delicate skin. "Edmund never crossed my mind. No, I mean your father – the other James." There was softness in his gaze she had never seen before. "How many times did he violate you, Marilyn? You see, I think that's the real reason you married Edmund. Poor Eddie was the perfect escape from a very depraved father."

Marilyn's heart thundered and she turned back to face the tapestry. She covered her lips with a shaking hand; simultaneously missing his touch and being revolted by it. Tears filled her eyes so that she could barely see the marvelous colors and texture on display before her.

He rested his forehead against her temple; his breath was warm on her cheek and smelled of mint. "I have upset you and I apologize. Be honest with me, I just want to be your friend."

"I can't talk about this," she managed through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry."

He stepped away from her and clasped his arms behind his back; tilting his head up to gaze at the tapestry before them. "I imagine the abuse was severe. We shan't speak of it again, Marilyn." And with that Moriarty began extoling the virtues of the piece before them.

* * *

After six hours, Marilyn's feet were sore and her back rebelled with every step.

Jim Moriarty had led her through each of the galleries and proved to be quite the history buff. His intelligence was certainly that of a genius and Marilyn was convinced he outstripped Edmund on every level at the tender age of eighteen. He seemed older somehow as he waxed poetic over a Raphael painting or listed the important qualities a Ming dynasty vase possessed.

He was well-spoken and even tempered, but given to seeming fits of mania as his excitement grew.

Marilyn felt strangely protected when he rested his hand at the curve of her back; his touch light and respectful. He was a gentleman and offered her his arm as they strolled through various exhibitions.

"You must be hungry," Moriarty remarked lazily.

Marilyn smiled and turned from the remarkable piece of bone china she had been studying. "A little, but I really should be getting back home. Edmund will be worried."

Jim Moriarty raised one night-dark eyebrow. "Professor Lyle can make do without you for a bit longer."

"Mr. Moriarty… " Marilyn began.

"Jamie," he corrected. "We're friends after all."

She nodded. "Jamie, I have a husband at home."

The smile disappeared from Moriarty's eyes and for a brief second Marilyn felt as though she were face to face with an alabaster effigy of Jim Moriarty instead of a live person. He shook his head briefly and pulled a face. "Right you are, Marilyn. My manners are simply atrocious, let me get you home."

Marilyn allowed Jim to escort her from the museum.

The trip home was quiet and Moriarty seemed lost in his thoughts as he observed her. He wasn't as attentive and carefully kept his hands to himself. The warmth between them seemed to have fled.

When he left her at her front door, Moriarty did take her hand. "I very much enjoyed our time together, Marilyn. I hope we see one another soon." He turned on his heel and left.

She watched his lean figure until it disappeared around the corner toward the tube station.

* * *

Edmund was in his study when she retired inside. He was sitting at his desk looking over some paperwork. He smiled when she stopped in the doorway. "Did you enjoy the museum?"

Marilyn nodded. "Yes, I had a lovely time. Mr. Moriarty was very kind."

He snorted. "Call him Jim, Marilyn, everyone does. 'Mr. Moriarty' sounds like a pensioner."

She smoothed her wet palms along her skirt. "Edmund, you know about my father…"

Edmund shot up from his chair. "Christ sakes, Marilyn! I know exactly what that bloody arsehole did to you and I don't want to talk about it! Why can't you just let it go? He's thousands of miles across the pond and he can't reach you here." His voice lowered and he seemed weary to her. "I have essays to grade. Be a good girl and shut the door behind you."

Marilyn reached out a shaking hand and drew the door shut behind her. She closed herself in the loo and drew a hot bath; filling the tub with lavender bath salts. After she stripped and tossed her clothes in the hamper, Marilyn stepped into the steaming water.

Sliding down, she sighed as the wet warmth engulfed her body.

She rested her head against the back of the tub and tried not to think of the younger man who made her feel things best forgotten… not just emotions, but physical desires she had long eschewed as indecent.

Letting the water draw out all her stress until she was boneless and filled with lethargy, Marilyn wondered if Jamie was trying to seduce her. Inexperience with men made her indecisive on the matter. The only person she could ask would be Edmund and Marilyn dared not.

Instead, Marilyn soaked. _'Are you thinking of me, Jamie?'_

* * *

Moriarty lay back on the bed, his heart still thundering. Wearily, he wiped the sweat from his face with one hand. Orgasm had ripped a hole through him as it always did – leaving him knackered to the point he felt dead.

He stared at the darkened ceiling with heavy eyes; thoughts of Marilyn plaguing his mind.

The walk back to the dormitories would be a long one and the air was still chilly. He wasn't relishing the journey.

A hand snaked its way up his chest and brushed over his sternum briefly before carrying on to the base of his throat. A forefinger traced designs on his skin. "You were incredible. Want another go?"

Rage boiled through him and Jim Moriarty shook off his post-coital haze. Rolling quickly, he pinned the other man beneath him; his legs on the other's arms. He reached down and squeezed the man's jaw. "Listen carefully – I buggered you because I wanted to and now I don't!" He was screaming; spittle flying from his lips. "Don't you ever presume to touch me unless invited to do so!"

Jim leaned down so that all the other man could see was his eyes. "Do you understand me?!"

Tomas Solitez stared up at him with wide, ebony eyes. His handsome face was rigid in a fearful mask. He nodded once.

Disgusted, Jim rolled off him and landed soundlessly on the floor beside the bed. He quickly began to dress. "You just have to ruin everything, don't you Tomas? We had a good thing going here… a few laughs, hot shags, but you couldn't be satisfied." He yanked on his jeans, buttoning them up as he turned. "No, you tried to make this _personal_."

Tomas was sitting; the pale blue linens pulled up to his chin. "You were just buried in my arse, I'd say that was pretty personal, Jim."

Moriarty went stone cold. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No…"

"Liar!" Moriarty backhanded Tomas savagely. "We are over, you pathetic worm. If you ever so much as breathe in the same space I occupy again – I promise the consequences will be grim." Staring at the blood dotting the skin of his knuckles, he deliberately wiped it on the sheets. "Have a nice life, Tomas."

Tomas stared at the man he had been sleeping with on and off over the past year. Blood welled at one corner of his mouth before rolling down his chin in shiny crimson beads. He wisely remained silent.

Jim snatched his shirt from the floors and shrugged into it before grabbing his jacket. He stormed from the studio flat; forcing the coat down stiff arms. He bounded down the stairs two at a time until he reached the ground floor. He kicked the front door open and stepped out onto the front steps of the building.

He stood for a long time simply breathing in the cold air and exhaling deeply; the white puffs of his breath were rising in the air like a ghostly balloon.

"Oh lovely," Jim muttered as he rolled his eyes. "Damn you, Tomas."

* * *

He made his way back to his dorm; the entire trip his brain was possessed with thoughts on different topics that interested him. Mathematics was more a hobby to him than a passion – it was too easy to figure out equations, dabble with advanced Calculus.

Easy equaled _**boring**_ to Jim Moriarty.

'_Boredom of the mind is death,'_ Jim chanted mentally.

A young man was standing beneath a street lamp on the paving stones outside the lecture hall. He was tall and older with burnished bronze hair and a sophisticated air. He leaned nonchalantly against the lamp post and calmly smoked a joint. The air was a hazy cloud around his head.

Upon seeing Jim, he smiled broadly. "Moriarty, how are you, mate?"

Jim slowed. "Exhausted." He shared classes with the young man. Deciding it would be an opportune time to display the social niceties, he stopped. "Moran, isn't it?"

The blond nodded and held out his joint. "Want a hit?"

Jim Moriarty enjoyed alcohol, mostly the finer spirits, but drugs didn't interest him. He had no moral objection to illegal substances; rather he had no desire to alter his brain chemistry. Jim knew he was clever and he intended to never lose that sharp edge which separated him from most of humanity.

He shook his head and tucked his hands into his pockets. "No thank you. I thought you had been sent packing after a disastrous thesis."

Sebastian Moran was the son of Lord William Moran and the younger brother of Henry Moran. The family was rich, well-connected, and rumored to be up to their necks in dirty politics. Sebastian was a proverbial black sheep of the family – he was flunking out of university and was a known womanizer and lover of illicit drugs.

Sebastian shrugged. "My dear old man talked to the dean. It appears I will be earning my degree in political science this spring."

"Politics? How predictable and terribly boring," Moriarty mused in a very unimpressed tone of voice.

"No shit." The other man pulled a face of disgust. "I tried to enroll in the Royal Marines, but my father won't hear of my serving. Too bad, I qualified as a sharpshooter last winter. Damn waste to be stuck here with my thumb up my arse when I could be off making a difference in the world."

Moriarty had to physically hold back his gag reflex. He couldn't abide the do-gooders who thought themselves angels in human form. He pasted a bland expression over his face. "And what sort of good in the world can a sharpshooter do?"

A familiar, yet disturbing grin which bordered on mania slipped across the handsome blond's face. "I believe there are all sorts of people in the world just gagging to be shot." He seemed to recover before taking another drag off his joint. "Sadly, I won't be able to help any of them a jot."

"Not on the side of the angels, are you?"

Sebastian snickered. "Fuck the angels. They're all a bunch of self-righteous bores."

Jim Moriarty took a step closer and held out his hand; a broad grin brightening his face. "I couldn't agree more. I think you and I should have a nice long chat, Moran."

"Fine, mate," Sebastian threw down his roach and put it out with the toe of his boot. "Lead the way."

"I know a quaint little café around the corner that happens to be open all night. Call me Jim, everyone does."

"Sebastian."

Moriarty had a feeling this fellow was going to be a keeper.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and to those who are following the story.

* * *

A month passed her by before Marilyn heard from Jim Moriarty again.

The phone was ringing madly off the hook as she came in the door from the bank. Thinking it was Edmund, she ran for the phone. Snatching it off the hook, she cradled it between her chin and shoulder. "Hello?"

There was a pause before a strong, familiar voice poured over her. "Marilyn, I hope I didn't disturb you."

_Jim Moriarty._

"Not at all," she managed a smile; her mother had always told her to smile when speaking on the phone and it made a difference in the voice. "I didn't expect to hear from you again."

"No?"

She brushed a strand of hair from her flushed cheek. "After our outing, I thought you might not want to see me again."

Moriarty laughed; the sound was low and genuinely amused. "Don't be absurd. We both had fun, at least I did. I was calling to see if we might be able to meet in the city. I have too many classes to go to Camberwell and fetch you."

Marilyn was terrified by the thought of traveling out of the neighborhood on her own. She set down her purse and clasped the phone in one hand while holding the back of her neck with the other. "Did you want to visit another museum?"

He paused. "I thought we might have lunch and take a long walk. We could go to Hyde Park if you like."

She had never seen Hyde Park in person, just pictures. "When did you want to meet?"

"What about this afternoon?"

Marilyn looked around the lounge. "Let me call Edmund…"

Moriarty's laugh stopped her cold. "We both know Professor Lyle is taking a sabbatical week in Paris. Do you really need to call him?"

Edmund had been distant toward her since the evening she had returned from her afternoon at the museum with his student. She was aware it wasn't the outing with Moriarty that had irritated him, but the mention of her father. He despised even a passing reference of what she had endured or of her family.

There were times Marilyn was certain Edmund considered her tainted goods; he was simply too much of a gentleman to tell her. The fact her husband hadn't touched her in months only added to her suspicion.

"No, I don't need to call him." Her voice was surprisingly steady considering how weak her knees were.

"Brilliant," he enthused. Moriarty gave her directions for the tube to get her to the university. "Meet me at the library and wear some sensible shoes."

Marilyn returned the phone receiver to its cradle. She looked around at the neat, orderly house she had designed for Edmund. Everything was built to suit his tastes, his eccentricities. She felt lonely.

Drawing herself up straight, she squared her shoulders and marched up the stairs.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, Marilyn found herself standing in front of the library at King's College.

She wasn't primped as she had been for her outing to the museum. Instead, Marilyn had opted for blue jeans, trainers, and a light weight, short sleeve jumper in pale lilac. Today she wore no makeup and had simply pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

Only a few minutes passed before a familiar figure approached.

Jim Moriarty looked tired; dark circles etched beneath each eye aged him. He was dressed like any other student in jeans and a black Henley. Stubble covered his cheeks and his hair was ruffled as though he had been running his hands through the dark mass.

A smile crept over his lips as he approached. "Right on time," he took her hand and pressed his lips against the soft skin of her knuckles. "Punctual and lovely – I'm delighted to see you again."

Marilyn let him tuck her hand in his elbow. "You look tired. How have you been feeling?"

Jim strolled down the street toward the tube station. "I've had better weeks but my thesis is nearly complete and I was accepted at Imperial College. All the hard work has been worth the effort."

The tube ride to Knightsbridge was less than thirty minutes and Marilyn was soon facing the most beautifully manicured park she had ever seen. People were enjoying the warm weather despite the overcast sky above.

They walked in silence for nearly an hour; each admiring the verdant beauty surrounding them. The quiet between them was far from uncomfortable. In fact, Marilyn was more comfortable with him than any man she had ever known.

Moriarty finally spoke. "What do you think of our fair park?"

"I feel like I've died and gone to heaven," she answered with a laugh.

"Religious, are you?" There was something sharp in the question that set Marilyn immediately on edge.

She shrugged. "It was just a figure of speech, Jamie. I'm an atheist."

"Excellent," he returned with his chipper mood seeming to return. "So am I. I once dated a girl who was fervently Catholic and was constantly trying to preach to me. It was all very dull and I tired of her fairly quickly."

Marilyn glanced at him as they neared a bank of flowers. "You broke up with her, I assume?"

Dark eyes slid toward her even as a grin stretched his lips upward. "You might say that. Are you getting hungry? As I recall, you managed to cheat me out of a meal the last time we were out."

She nodded. "Yes, I'm famished to be honest."

"I know just the place for us."

The restaurant Jim Moriarty chose was a small hole in the wall establishment close to the Knightsbridge tube station. Cramped and crowded, Marilyn found herself squashed up against the window with Jim pressed rather intimately against her side at the tiny table they shared.

"Indian cuisine at its finest," he breathed against her ear. "At least my friend Moran believes so. I suppose we will be the judges."

A colorful poster of Lakshmi decorated one wall with her arms outstretched gracefully. The entire place smelled of cardamom and curry. More people than not simply went to the counter for bags of takeaway.

Marilyn looked outside once or twice at the pedestrians on the pavement passing by. The rest of the time, she found herself studying the young man beside her. He seemed to have a power to attract her attention despite the warnings of her practical, moral side. The voice in her mind tried to caution her Jim Moriarty was only a boy no matter how adult he presented himself.

He studied the flimsy green paper menu briefly before handing it to her. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he looked down at her. "Order whatever you like."

She tried to read, but soon enough was distracted by Jim's intense stare. Marilyn could _feel_ his gaze. A nervous laugh escaped her throat. "I have no idea what I want."

"Oh I think we both know that isn't true," he stated quietly.

Marilyn could feel her cheeks burn. Turning away from him, she looked out the window.

Strong fingers captured her chin and tilted her head back in his direction. "Don't be afraid," Jim's voice was low and soothing. "I won't hurt you, Marilyn. Go ahead and touch me, I know you want to."

Fingers trembling, she reached up and wrapped them around his wrist. She pulled his hand from her face and stared down at the strong palm with the lines deeply chiseled in his skin. "My grandmother used to read palms at family parties. She read mine once."

Moriarty was watching her from hooded eyes. "What did she tell you?"

Marilyn met his gaze for a moment before turning back to his palm. "My grandmother told me that one day I would move far across the sea. She said I would meet a man and if I made poor choices that my life would end badly."

He extended a forefinger and feathered it along her jaw. "Do you believe what she said?"

"I moved far across the sea," she shrugged. "I didn't used to believe in nonsense like fortune telling, but here you are; my own personal demon."

Jim chuckled. "Demons are simply rebellious angels. I like to think Lucifer freed humanity from domination and idiocy." Upon seeing her incredulous expression, he held out a hand and grinned. "Now hear me out, Marilyn. If it wasn't for Lucifer tempting Eve the entire human race would consist of naked farmers. How very monotonous that existence would have been. On top of being surrounded by people with no more of an IQ than the squash they were cultivating, we would be forced to look at those who very badly need to be clothed. Let us face facts, there are unfortunates among us that should not been seen in the nude."

Marilyn laughed. "You're awful, Jamie. I can't believe you just extolled the virtues of the devil to me."

"I just believe in being fair," he replied lazily.

The waiter interrupted them. Moriarty ordered their meal in a quiet, authoritative voice which didn't match up with his appearance. His eyes too carried the expression of a much older man; as though he had seen things perhaps he shouldn't have.

They spoke of art and literature at length as they ate.

It was near the end of their meal when he looked at her with great seriousness on his face. His eyes flickered over her. "Ask me to come home with you."

Marilyn stared at him. "I'm married, Jamie…"

"In name only," Jim replied tersely. "We both know that you aren't happy. I just want to be around you a bit longer. I will keep my hands to myself – you have my word."

"What about your classes?" She was grasping at straws. "What if one of your dorm mates reports you are gone?"

He smirked. "I hate to disappoint you, but I'm no virgin and I've spent a great deal of time away from my dorm room. No one is going to report anything to anyone. As far as my classes go, I have perfect attendance. If I miss one class, the world will hardly stop turning."

Marilyn knew she should refuse him and walk away; instead something else entirely escaped her lips.

"Come home with me."

Jim Moriarty didn't smile or make light of the situation. Instead he merely nodded before standing and offering her his hand. He helped her up and pulled twenty quid from his pocket and dropped it on the table before leading her out the door.

* * *

The ride on the tube was long and Moriarty was quiet until they emerged a few blocks from her flat.

Despite his lack of loquacity, Jim's presence was warm and reassuring.

She walked to her front door; butterflies filled her stomach. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door. The sharp click sounded like her execution was being announced.

Once they were inside, Moriarty seemed to come alive. He took the keys from her hand and made sure to throw all the locks back into place. He flicked on the lights, strolled into the lounge, and dropped the keys on a nearby coffee table.

The loud clank made Marilyn jump.

Jim noticed and turned toward her. "The last thing I want is for you to be afraid of me, Marilyn. I've worked too hard for us to reach this point only to frighten you away." He slid his hands in his pockets and tilted his head. Lines creased his brow as he studied her. "I promised I would keep my hands to myself and I will." He jiggled his fists in his jean pockets and gave her a faint smile. "Will you sit with me?"

He looked deliberately at the sofa and back to her.

Marilyn crept forward until only a few feet separated them. "I'm tired; I think I should go to bed." Seeing his dark brows arch, she blushed. "To sleep," she added hastily.

"Sleep is a good idea," he approved with a nod toward the stairs. "I could use a kip myself."

She followed his gaze. "I…" Marilyn took a deep breath before looking at him. "Jamie, you're eighteen years old, I'm twenty-five."

"I could care less," Jim remarked. "Age is meaningless to me."

"I could end up causing serious trouble."

He raised one eyebrow. "The truth comes out. You are more afraid of social convention and propriety than you are of me." A smirk crossed his face. "On so many levels I find your admission to be incredibly sexy."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm married and it would be wrong."

Jim Moriarty's face changed instantly. A snarl escaped his throat and his features twisted. "Stop being a coward, Marilyn!" He pulled one hand out of his pocket and pointed it at her. "Edmund Lyle is more like your father than your husband. I wager he isn't even man enough to shag you properly. When was the last time he gave you a hot, satisfying roll between the sheets?"

Marilyn was so aghast she couldn't speak.

He gave her a curt nod. "I thought so. Part of your problem is that you suffered a horrible tragedy as a child. You don't trust anyone really, not even Edmund, and so you push everyone away rather than open up to vulnerability. Sex, pleasure, emotion – all those things require closeness and that makes you vulnerable. Cowardice is the easy way out for you and you take it every time. You live a pathetic half-life… a shell of the magnificence you could be if you extended a little trust."

The slap echoed sharply between them.

Marilyn stared at her stinging palm in shock.

_"Oh yes," _Moriarty fairly crooned in a low, husky voice. "I knew you had some fire in you, Marilyn."

Shaking, she looked up at him. The red handprint on his cheek stood out in stark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes were like mirrors reflecting a midnight sky; so dark she could no longer determine a difference between his pupils and irises.

No apology was forthcoming; she sensed Jim would simply have sneered at the attempt.

Instead, Marilyn brushed her fingers against the mark. She found his skin throbbing and hot to the touch. Edging closer, she was now only a breath away from him. He was throwing off so much heat; it felt as though he had the power to scald her. The scent of him was pungent in her nose; the musk of clean masculine skin, slight traces of salt and soap, and the faintest hint of freshly cut grass.

The aura of him, his scent, his heat made her feel alive… giddy almost.

Marilyn felt faint from sensory overload.

"Kiss me," he urged in a rough voice; warmth pooled between her thighs at his entreaty.

She slid her hands to his jaw; stubble along his skin grazing her palms. He obliged her gentle tug by dipping his head lower. Marilyn pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. A soft growl issued from his throat; both warning and longing.

Hesitantly, Marilyn pressed her lips fully against Jim Moriarty's. His lips were a conundrum, soft and hard, salty and sweet. He tasted faintly of the curry they had enjoyed earlier. She kissed him slowly, with growing zeal.

A gasp was torn from her throat as he settled one hand about her waist. The other he grasped her ponytail, forcing her neck to arch. Moriarty pulled his mouth away from hers and began a slow, sensual exploration of her neck. He used his tongue and teeth until she was breathing heavily and grabbing at his shirt to remain upright.

Edmund was nothing like this – his kisses were perfunctory, as though he was fulfilling a duty.

Jim chuckled; his face buried in the soft skin where her slender neck and shoulder joined. "Very nice indeed," he whispered before nipping her playfully. Jim straightened, careful to keep hold of her. "Come with me."

Marilyn let him lead her to the stairs.

Jim released her and took the first step. He turned and stared down at her with yearning stamped on his features. "I'm retiring upstairs. Come to me when you feel ready. We will either sleep peacefully through the night or find ourselves occupied rather pleasantly. It really is your choice, Marilyn. I won't force or try to cajole you into anything you are uncomfortable doing." Without another word, he turned and continued up the stairs.

She hugged herself; suddenly chilled without the warmth of his presence.

Footsteps echoed across the floor.

Marilyn listened for a few minutes. His steps were softer now, indicating he had removed his shoes, as he left the bedroom. The steps were faint and then the shower turned on.

Dry-mouthed, heart pounding painfully, she tried to close her eyes against him naked with water sluicing down his skin in warm rivulets.

No matter what Marilyn did, the image haunted her. The fire he had so cleverly stoked in her only raged.

Taking a deep breath, she turned off the lights and made her way toward the dim light at the top of the stairs.

* * *

Jim Moriarty relaxed, supine against the soft pillows he had used earlier to prop himself up. He was half-sitting in the large bed, Marilyn sprawled beside him on her belly; gloriously naked, her skin argent in the moonlight flooding the room. She had cast one arm across his waist in sleep.

He ghosted his knuckles across the silken flesh of her lower back.

Jim brushed back the dark curtain of her hair so he could examine her shoulders without impediment. A primal sense of satisfaction surged through his veins at the sight that greeted him; red claw marks accompanied by small nips.

What had happened only a few hours earlier between them was no run of the mill shag in his eyes.

He smirked as he looked down at his own chest. Distinct bite marks were etched along his ribs along with stinging scratches upon his own back. No one had ever marked him in such a manner before – Jim had not allowed it. Rough play between the sheets was nothing new to him, and he rather enjoyed it at times, but his encounter with Marilyn had been fueled by raw, unfettered passion. Nothing was staged about their coupling; neither of them had held back once he tumbled them onto the bed.

Moriarty had never experienced such intense sex; it had nearly bordered on savagery. Marilyn had been shy at first, but her timidity fell away to reveal a woman who could prove to be aggressive. He enjoyed the change in her behavior as her prim reserve fell away.

Jim lifted Marilyn's arm by the wrist very carefully. He pressed a kiss against her warm palm before gently resting her arm against the bed. His handprint from earlier still shown dark against the creamy skin of her backside; it was transitioning into a bruise. He traced the mark absently before pressing his lips against her ear.

"Stay asleep for a little while longer, darling. Daddy has some work to do and he mustn't be disturbed."

Marilyn shifted toward him in her sleep and a soft mewl escaped her throat. Eyes closed and breathing deeply, she appeared like an innocent child to him.

He edged out of the bed and pulled the sheets up to shield her from the cold.

Yanking on his jeans, he buttoned them absently as he watched Marilyn sleep. She was all he had hoped for since first setting eyes on her photo. Moriarty had no intention of letting her go… ever. She belonged to him now.

He sighed and padded softly from the room. "I'm afraid there isn't room for more than one man in your life, sweet pea. We will have to whittle down the competition." The words were so soft, Moriarty barely heard himself speak.

Edmund's study was across the landing, across from the bedroom.

Jim opened the door and eased into the room. He closed the door quietly and flicked on the light. Blinking at the harsh illumination, he rubbed one eye as he walked toward the desk. A yawn escaped his throat. "No rest for the wicked as they say." He sank into Edmund's chair and eyed the desk drawers facing him. "Now where would a naughty fellow like you hide all the incriminating evidence? You aren't nearly as bright as you like to believe, Eddie."

Moriarty was quite aware getting Marilyn to leave Edmund of her own accord would be like fitting the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. He needed to play dirty. A smirk lit up his face.

"Playing dirty is my specialty."

Without further ado, Jim pulled open the third drawer down on the right. He scooped up the files within and tossed them on the desk. He hummed low in his throat as he rifled through the confidential items.

He was at the halfway mark when he found exactly what he had been hoping for.

_Colleen Mackenzie. _

"I suppose you are the old girl messaging Edmund." He snorted and pulled out a glossy photo of a woman in her early forties with heavily bleached blonde hair and reasonable good looks. She looked like the type of woman to have three children and a staid office job shuffling papers of some sort.

Jim pulled a face. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

Under the photo was a treasure trove of information on Colleen Mackenzie. She was a teacher in Kent who ran a B&B out of her home for cyclists. A bell went off in Jim's head. Edmund was always babbling to him that Jim needed to take up cycling and that Kent was a paradise.

"So this is the special lady you're shagging in Paris this week." Jim rubbed his chin and fell back against the chair. He scratched absently at his neck as his mind collected and disregarded options and scenarios. "What a tangled web you've been weaving, Eddie."

Jim turned the picture over, snatched up a pen, and jotted down the pertinent information Edmund's file contained on Ms. Mackenzie. He folded the photo and shoved it into his pocket before returning all the paper work to the drawer as Jim had found it.

He rubbed his top lip for a moment before reaching for the phone perched on the edge of the desk. He dialed the one person who could help him make his dream a reality.

"'Ello?" The voice on the other end of the phone was throaty and dry; the tone confused.

Jim smirked. "It's time to rise and shine, you lazy bugger. I need the services we've been discussing."

"Are you mad?!" Sebastian Moran bellowed. "It's three in the morning!"

"Business, Sebastian, as you will learn, cannot always be put off until more genial hours of the day." Jim scolded the other man like a small child. "You wanted certain employment in a field most so-called civilized people would eschew entirely. Said employment is now available. If you are the man I believe you to be, Moran, you will get your arse out of bed and meet me."

A loud sigh echoed across the line. "Where do you want to meet?"

"Good fellow," Jim praised. "Are you familiar with Camberwell?"

"A bit," Sebastian allowed reluctantly. "Give me directions."

Jim did so. "Be here by six and not a moment earlier."

Sebastian muttered something Jim didn't quite catch before hanging up.

He shrugged and hung up the phone. Standing, Jim stretched until his joints popped. He rolled his shoulders as he turned off the lights and closed the door behind him.

Jim wasn't surprised to see Marilyn peering sleepily up at him as he neared the bed.

"Is anything wrong?" Her voice betrayed her weariness and concern.

He divested himself of the jeans and lowered himself to lie beside her. "I'm fine, darling, just feeling a bit restless." Jim tickled her under the chin as if she was a child before pulling her against him. Normally, he despised cuddling or touching one of his conquests after sex; most of the time, he left as soon as his legs could carry him. "Nothing for you to worry about, I promise."

Marilyn rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "Okay," she muttered against his skin.

Jim massaged the back of her neck until he felt her slip back into sleep. He tried to sleep, but the state of unconsciousness eluded him as it often did. Instead, he savored the warmth of Marilyn's body against his even as his mind fine-tuned his plan to take possession of the woman beside him. He was orchestrating every move against Edmund Lyle as though playing chess. Nothing could be left to chance if Jim wanted success.

He had planned on peeling back all of Marilyn's layers and leaving her bare before him; corrupting her until anything good in Marilyn withered. His brow wrinkled, his mouth twisting as the idea was becoming repugnant to him.

Jim looked down into her sleeping face and frowned.

'_Maybe I should kill you right now, Marilyn. Caring is weakness.'_ The thought was dismissed as quickly as it had arrived.

He would have to remain vigilant against softening further. Jim was determined to become a king in the criminal world because frankly, he was smarter than everyone else. Every king needed a queen as far as he was concerned and this particular queen may be relegated to the shadows, but her importance to him would not be lessened by that fact. Jim had plans for Marilyn – he was going to mold her into a new being. He simply decided to leave some of that delectable innocence intact.

A devilish smile crossed his lips as his eyes finally dropped shut.


	5. Chapter 5

A sharp knock sounded on the door at six sharp.

Jim had showered and dressed an hour earlier. He had left Marilyn tucked under the bedcovers sleeping soundly. After cleaning himself, Jim had descended to the first floor. He rummaged through the kitchen and found sweet brown bread and Irish butter in the ice box. Jim made coffee, though he preferred tea, simply because he was still exhausted and coffee always cleared his mind.

The coffee table in the lounge which had previously held art and travel books now held a small feast; thick slices of toast liberally smeared with butter and marmalade, a carafe of steaming French roast coffee, a small pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar along with spoons. He had sliced some fresh oranges and arranged them on a dish beside which rested a platter consisting of fine Cheddar cut into small cubes.

This was a poor man's repast, but one day he would have sufficient funds to remedy the poverty he had suffered.

Jim threw the bolt and opened the door to a scowling Sebastian Moran.

"You're the one I ought to shoot," he spat. "Do you have any idea how much it cost me for a taxi?"

"Oh dear, someone seems rather grumpy," Jim moved aside and waved the other man in. "I think less dope and more sleep may improve your outlook." He shut the door and locked it once more. "Come in and sit down. Marilyn is still sleeping so I would appreciate you lowering your voice."

Sebastian rolled his eyes but went into the lounge. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it across a nearby chair. "I take it you had her. Was she any good?"

Moriarty frowned as he sat. "Try not to be crass, Sebastian, it is below you." He gestured toward the empty space on the couch beside him. "Care for some toast?" Jim offered the other man a plate. "Marilyn made the bread from scratch. Delicious, I assure you."

Sebastian Moran sat and took the plate. "You said you have a job for me. Details, if you please."

Jim sipped his coffee and ate an orange slice and some cheese before responding. "I need two people dead." He picked up Colleen Mackenzie's now crumpled photo from beside the carafe and gave it to Moran. "I want it to appear as a murder-suicide. I believe it would be best if you took care of the matter in Kent."

Finishing his toast, Sebastian licked the marmalade from his fingers before picking up the picture. He frowned as he turned it over and read the information Jim had scrawled across the back. "She looks like someone's mum. If I come across any potential witnesses, what do you want done?"

Jim had given some thought to the people at Mackenzie's B&B as well as any possible family members. He picked up his coffee cup and cradled it in his hands; relishing the searing warmth. "Kill them," he stated matter-of-factly. "Be very sure to make it look as though Ms. Mackenzie committed the deed. Marilyn will inherit this flat and a tidy sum from her husband's life insurance. The flat can be sold for a decent sum. Should Lyle appear to be the guilty party, Marilyn would end up penniless. I want her removed from this place… from his influence."

"What do I get out of all this? After all, I'm the one taking the risk."

Moriarty nodded and relaxed against the sofa. He had fully expected the question. "First, you gain experience in your chosen trade. Second, you earn my undying gratitude and friendship, both of which are rarely extended. Third, you will be paid twenty thousand pounds which you will receive from me once Marilyn sells this place."

Sebastian popped a cube of Cheddar into his mouth and smiled. "I'll forego the payment if you please in lieu of a favour."

Jim arched one eyebrow. "Do tell. What sort of favour?"

"I have a good chum from primary school looking for a wee bit of assistance."

"Interesting," Jim allowed. "Continue."

Sebastian relaxed. He swiped at his nose before studying his fingernails. "Alex managed to lift a certain item of value from a gallery in SoHo. He wants to unload said merchandise discreetly."

"What is stopping him from doing so?" Moriarty asked, perplexed.

The other man cleared his throat. "Alex isn't the brightest paint in the pot if you catch my meaning."

"He's a simpleton, I take it."

Sebastian gave a careless shrug. "Not everyone can be as clever as you, Jim."

Moriarty snorted. "Flattery will get you nowhere. So, you kill Lyle and Mackenzie and I help your friend Alex fence a stolen piece of art."

"Exactly so," Sebastian agreed.

"I'll have the piece sold within a day of the professor's death."

Sebastian nodded. "You're the boss, Moriarty."

"Damn straight," Jim replied. "Try not to forget that fact. I would hate to correct you."

The blond sniggered. He took a long draught of coffee before jerking his head toward the stairs. "Did you shag her?"

One moment Sebastian Moran was upright and the next he was flat on his back on the floor with a small, sharp blade pressed against his carotid artery. Jim Moriarty was astride him with hellfire burning in the depths of his eyes.

He leaned down so that their noses nearly touched. "I will tell you this only once, Sebastian. I cherish my privacy. Marilyn belongs to me and therefore falls into the _private_ category. One day you will meet her, I expect your behavior to be gentlemanly and courteous with her at all times. You will never ask me about my relations with Marilyn again. Are we clear?"

Sebastian swallowed. "Crystal clear, Jim."

Moriarty stood. He tucked the knife in his back pocket and offered Sebastian his hand. "Let me help you."

Sebastian accepted. He simply shrugged and placed the incident in the back of his mind. He had known Moriarty was dangerous; this just sealed the idea in Sebastian's mind. Moriarty wasn't a large, muscle-bound man like many Sebastian had dealt with, but he was far more deadly.

Sebastian admired the pluck and fearlessness of Jim Moriarty; he was the sort of man it would be easy to follow.

Jim picked up the dish of sliced oranges. "Still hungry?"

Sebastian found Moriarty odd at times, but brilliant men often were a little off. He shook his head. "No, I think I'm good, thanks."

Moriarty nodded thoughtfully and placed the dish back on the coffee table. He walked to the front door and opened it. "I bid you adieu and much success in your endeavors. I would like the job complete before June."

"I'll have it done," Sebastian agreed as he slipped on his jacket. "I intend to go on holiday after I take care of business. I should be gone several weeks."

Moriarty nodded. "An excellent idea, Sebastian, maybe you can laze about the beach and tan. We will get together and talk after you return. I'm considering admitting Philip Sanderson to our circle. We need someone with outstanding computer skills. My own are sufficient, I suppose, but I have no desire to sit at a computer all day long." He smiled. "If I wanted a desk job, I would actually become a professor."

Sebastian smirked. "Heaven forbid."

"Heaven has nothing to do with it," Jim advised him with a chuckle.

Moran saluted him jauntily on his way out the door.

Jim Moriarty shut the door and locked it. He ran his hands through his hair. "Bugger, I'm exhausted."

* * *

Marilyn stood in front of the bathroom mirror examining her back in the reflection. She shifted her hair over one shoulder onto her chest. The view of her back and shoulders was disturbing. Teeth marks, distinct and deep red, littered her skin and further down were stinging scratches that ached if she reached back and tried to touch them.

A large handprint, Jim's hand, stood out on her left buttock as a pale bruise; more yellow-green than purple.

She remembered with detailed comprehension how she had attained each mark on her skin.

To her complete surprise, Marilyn didn't feel guilty. The tiny voice in her mind screaming recriminations had been silenced utterly under Jim's tutelage of the flesh.

Marilyn remembered the expressions that crossed his face as he moved with her; in her. He was stoic, as though concentrating deeply, his countenance changing to a grimace she mistook as pain once. His teeth clenched, his voice low and husky against her ear as he made suggestions or asked her what she liked.

The way his eyes had fluttered back in his head as she moved her mouth over him haunted her.

She wanted to feel shame, but she didn't. In fact, for the first time in her life she felt normal. Not dirty, not like a piece of used equipment – Marilyn felt as though she was wanted in a strangely wholesome way.

"How did you sleep?" Jim's voice was low, his Irish brogue pronounced; the sound like smoke and whiskey in her ears.

Marilyn looked over her shoulder to find Jim in the doorway to the loo.

He was leaning against the door jamb watching her from beneath hooded eyes; his arms crossed over his chest. He wore only his jeans low around the waist.

She turned and tried to cover her breasts and crotch with her hands. "Jamie…"

"Don't do that," he waved a finger at her; his gaze serious. "You look like you're afraid of me and I hate it. After what we did last night, I think you can relax around me."

"I'm not afraid of you, I just…"

Jim entered the bathroom; his gait like that of a loping wolf. "You just don't want me to see your feminine parts?" He flashed a broad smile at her. _"Too late, love!"_ The sing-song quality in his voice brought a smile to her face.

He noticed at once and cupped her chin. Studying her, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her cheek. "Take a shower with me and get dressed. I made you some breakfast. We can relax together before I have to go to class."

Marilyn blushed. "I'm a little sore, I don't know if I can do it again."

A dark laugh, low and throaty, rumbled in his chest. "As much as I would like to oblige, and I really would, I'm out of condoms. Protection first and foremost, darling. I'm too young to be a daddy at my age." Jim leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching. "Besides, if you are sore, a tryst in the shower is not the best idea."

He pulled back and walked around her to the tub. He turned on the water and tested it on his forearm before turning on the shower. "Yes? I can fairly hear you thinking. Spit it out."

"Do you like children?"

Jim turned and shrugged. "Some. I'm seventeen, I have plenty of time to breed later if I like."

Marilyn laughed.

His brow rose. "What do you find so amusing?"

"You seem so much older than you really are." Marilyn shrugged. "I was picturing you changing a diaper."

"No, that will _never_ happen," Jim retorted. "I like equality between the sexes, but I draw the line at handling shite."

She laughed as he stripped and led her into the shower. They washed one another with lazy abandon; touching with simple affection rather than desire. To her surprise, she discovered Jim had quite fastidious grooming habits. He spent far more time in the loo than she did. He paid particular attention, she would later discover, to his nails, his hair, and most especially his teeth.

* * *

They were seated on the sofa together, side by side; he was skimming a large book on Puerto Rico filled with large glossy photos of the island, she was eating toast slathered with marmalade and watching the morning news.

"Have you ever been?" Jim asked as he turned a page in the book.

Marilyn sighed. "No, I would love to visit Puerto Rico, but money is tight and Edmund doesn't want to go."

"To hell with Edmund," Jim replied. "I was referring to us taking a holiday."

"A trip to San Juan would be lovely. And how would we pay for said trip?"

He snorted. "You have _nooo_ imagination at all. We will have to remedy that, Marilyn. How much do you have tucked away in the bank?"

"I have five thousand pounds to my name."

"You've been a busy girl." Jim looked up at her. "Not a sum sufficient to buy a Greek villa."

Marilyn set aside her plate filled with no more than crumbs. "How did you know about the villa? I didn't tell anyone. I don't have pictures of Greece here in the house."

Moriarty's lips twisted and his eyebrows drew together. "I followed you one day when I had nothing to do. You stopped at a travel agency. There was a poster in the window of white-washed villas overlooking a crystal blue sea; Greece. I watched you trace the carved stone steps on the advert through the glass. I knew you quite intimately in that moment."

She stared at him. "I thought you were just blustering when you said you followed me."

"No, I was telling you the truth." He shut the book. "Are you surprised I followed you round? I told you I was infatuated."

Marilyn shrugged. "I don't know what to think."

The phone interrupted them.

She rose and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

'_Marilyn, its Edmund. How are you faring, sweetheart?'_ Edmund's voice was filled with cheer; though tinny as though he were in a tunnel.

"I'm fine," she struggled to keep a straight face as Jim clasped his hands together and held them beside his cheek; mugging for her dramatically and blowing kisses. "How are you?"

'_Oh, I'm fine. I wanted to let you know I need to stay in Paris another week. A rather interesting opportunity came up with Professor D'Albec. I hope you don't mind.'_

Marilyn shook her head. "No, I don't mind. How is the research coming along?"

Jim rolled his eyes as he shook his head. He put away the book and scrounged the last bits of cheese from the plates on the coffee table.

'_Fair, but I think D'Albec has some original thoughts I would like to explore further.'_

"Enjoy Paris, Edmund," Marilyn kept her voice carefully modulated. "I will make you a special dinner when you come back."

'_I look forward to it, sweetheart. Au revoir!'_

Marilyn hung up the phone and turned; a scream was torn from her throat.

Jim Moriarty was in front of her wearing an expression of black fury; the muscle in his jaw twitching madly. "I want you to leave him, Marilyn."

She blinked. "Leave Edmund?"

"Who the bloody hell do you think I want you to leave?!" Jim shouted. "You are _not_ cooking that bastard a blooming coming home dinner!"

Fear made her stomach turn cold. She held up her hands; they trembled. "Please Jamie, just calm down…"

He began advancing on her; his chest bumping into her hands and forcing her backward until she hit the wall behind her. "Calm down? Do not ever tell me to calm down." His voice dropped to a low, rough hiss. "That man has no respect for you at all, none."

"Jamie," Marilyn began to massage his chest. "I'm the one at fault here, not Edmund. I'm having an affair, not him."

The anger evaporated from his face leaving Jim looking haggard. He gave a rude snort. "That's what you think."

Icy cold penetrated every fiber of Marilyn's being. "What did you say?"

"Edmund has been having a long term affair. It wasn't my business to tell you, but I won't participate in your self-flagellation."

Fear clogged her brain. She stared at Jim's throat.

He drew back from her. "You're afraid he'll leave you." A harsh laugh escaped him. "Why am I not surprised?" Jim turned and walked away from her. "You need to think long and hard on your priorities in life, Marilyn. To be blunt, you need to grow up a bit. Mourning over a man who treats you like a trophy instead of a partner is most unattractive."

Marilyn was stunned she couldn't move; even when Jim slammed the door as he left.

She didn't hear from him again for two days.

* * *

The usual trip Marilyn made to the bank differed on this particular day.

Low, cheesy music was being piped in and there were several people in front of her so Marilyn decided to seek amusement by studying the notices posted on a nearby wall. She skimmed over the rates and stopped dead when her eyes touched on an employment notice.

She stepped out of line and pulled the job listing from the bulletin board.

_Receptionist position available immediately. Monday – Friday, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily. Please apply with the branch manager._

Marilyn knew Harris Forrester quite well; he had opened her bank account when she first arrived in London.

Advert clenched in her fist, Marilyn walked to the small office at the far end of the branch. She hadn't noticed when Jemma Pelton left; assuming the younger woman was on holiday. The door to Mr. Forrester's office was open and the man was on the phone.

She walked away to a discreet distance and waited patiently.

After a few minutes, Mr. Forrester hung up the phone and looked her way. "Mrs. Lyle, I'm delighted to see you, my dear. How are you today?"

She smiled as he stood and buttoned his suit jacket.

Harris Forrester was sixty-four years old; a tall, portly man fond of gray suits and petit fours. He had snow-white hair and a carefully groomed beard and mustache. His face always carried a broad, sunny smile and his bright blue eyes seemed filled with stars.

Marilyn held out the employment notice. "I'm fine, Mr. Forrester. I would like to apply for the open position if possible."

Forrester chuckled. "Come into my office and have a seat. The position only pays thirty thousand pounds a year, Mrs. Lyle."

"Is there room for advancement within the company?" Marilyn was surprised at her own question.

The man across from her seemed delighted. "Indeed! RCH is just the place for an ambitious young woman. What sort of financial interests would you like to pursue?"

"Investments primarily," she answered with growing enthusiasm. "I have to admit, I don't have any experience as a receptionist."

"Ah yes," Mr. Forrester muttered as he stroked his beard. "References do matter. I would be willing to offer you a deal. I will hire you for a three month probationary period based on my personal dealings with you. If you work out, I will take you on permanently."

"Do I need to fill out an application?"

He reached into his desk and pulled out a sheet of pale blue paper. "Yes, I'm sorry to say. I despise all the bloody paperwork needed nowadays. I will need to submit the application and you would have to submit to a credit check; very routine. If you pass, you are hired for the probationary period we spoke about. The brilliant part is that once you're hired, you need not go through all the rigmarole in order to change departments."

Marilyn smiled at him as she accepted the application.

Harris Forrester had kept her in the bank for another four hours while he waited to receive the credit report he pulled. She passed with flying colors and was hired on the spot for the probationary period.

Instead of heading straight home to an empty flat, Marilyn decided to do something she never did.

Marilyn withdrew five hundred pounds from her savings account.

* * *

She took the bus several blocks to a shopping center. There Marilyn spent the next few hours wandering around in a daze. She visited a fairly posh menswear store and purchased a charcoal grey suit, crisp white broadcloth shirt, and a maroon silk tie. The outfit cost three hundred pounds – an amount Marilyn would normally consider outrageous. She didn't blink an eye at the price.

Before leaving the store, she found a pair of black Italian dress shoes with leather so fine and shiny she could see her face reflecting in them. The sum being asked nearly stopped her heart. Marilyn pulled out her emergency credit card and used it for the first time.

Next, she stopped at the market and bought a dozen white roses arranged in a lovely bouquet with ferns and baby's breath. To the bouquet, Marilyn added a celebratory bottle of champagne and a small box of dark chocolate truffles.

When Marilyn arrived at her door; her arms were loaded down with goods and she had not a pound in her pocket.

"Jamie," she gasped. "I didn't expect to see you."

Jim Moriarty was standing on her stoop with his arms crossed and his back against the door. He looked more tired than usual. Surprise flitted across his face as he took her in. His clothes on this day consisted of a threadbare jacket, t-shirt bearing the King's College logo, and black jeans. His trainers were stained and battered.

He raised one eyebrow. "I can see that." Unfolding himself from his position at the door, he came forward to help unburden her. "I finished my thesis. I shall submit it to Professor Lyle when he returns."

Marilyn allowed him to take two of the bags. She shifted the load to her hip and fished for the keys in her purse.

Once they crossed the threshold, he set the bags down on the lounge floor. He seemed puzzled as he read the store name. "You truly are a forgiving woman," Jim muttered. "To find out her spouse is sleeping with another woman and then buy him gifts." The bitterness in his tone made her turn at the door.

"Jamie, I didn't buy Edmund anything." She smiled. "Those are for you."

He stared at the packages as though they contained poison. "I don't need charity, Marilyn."

She sighed and passed into the kitchen. Tossing her purse on the table, she pulled out the Waterford vase and filled it from the tap. She quickly arranged the flowers before setting them in the center of the table.

A soft exclamation of surprise was torn from her throat when she turned.

Jim was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets; head cocked and studying her intently. "Something happened today. Tell me what it was. You seem quite different."

"Different in a good way or a bad way?"

He pursed his lips.

She trembled under the intense scrutiny of his gaze.

"Good, I believe," Jim finally announced. "You seem more cheerful than I've ever seen you."

"I have a job."

His eyes widened. "You have a what?"

"Job," Marilyn repeated. "I'm the new receptionist at RCH Bank, the local branch."

"Oh _really_," Jim drawled the word out playfully. "I'm looking at an independent woman."

She couldn't help but smile. "Yes, to the tune of thirty thousand pounds per year and the possibility of advancement." Marilyn picked up the champagne and truffles. "Care to celebrate with me?"

"Indeed I would," he stated with a grin. "Shall I put the champagne on ice?"

"The fridge will have to do – no champagne bucket I'm afraid."

Jim smiled and took the bottle from her. He turned from the fridge after closing the door. Jerking his thumb toward the door, he stared at her once more. "What is all that about?"

She offered him her hand. "Come and see."

Jim took her hand and allowed her to tug him back into the living room.

Marilyn rooted through the first bag and handed him the carefully wrapped parcel. He studied it closely before unwrapping it with surprisingly clumsy fingers for a young man who was normally nimble. The tissue fell away to reveal the slacks she had purchased.

Jim studied them in silence; holding them awkwardly with one hand and while stroking the fabric with the other. He laid them carefully across the sofa in such a way as to avoid any possibility to wrinkling the fabric. Jim did the same with the suit jacket and the shirt. He fondled the tie with an expression akin to lust.

"I thought with you graduating from university that you might need a new suit." She paused when he didn't speak. "Do you like it?"

Jim stared at her. "Yes, of course I do. Why did you do this? I don't understand."

Marilyn studied him for a moment; for the first time since she had met him, she saw genuine puzzlement in his eyes. She stepped closer to him and touched his cheek. "I'm buying you a gift because I care about you."

The vacant look he gave her was startling.

"Jamie, hasn't anyone ever given you a present before?"

He looked away from her at the suit and crouched down to place the tie against the shirt. Jim stayed squatted down for some minutes. "No," he finally answered in a soft voice.

Marilyn felt a sense of shock ripple through her. Dropping to her knees beside him, she looped her arm up over his shoulder and began to stroke his hair. "Well here is your first present."

Jim turned his head toward her. "You have good taste." He pointed at the box near her feet. "What is in there?"

She slid the box to him and sank to her knees on the floor. "Take a look."

He pulled the lid from the box and fell to his knees. With excitement, he pulled a shoe from the box and held it up. "Is this Gucci?"

Marilyn was surprised he knew brands so well. "Yes."

Jim turned and grabbed her hard; yanking her to him unceremoniously. His mouth slanted across hers with passion, his lips taking possession of her. He tasted faintly of mint and coffee. She gasped and he used the opportunity to thrust his tongue into her mouth. He was skilled and knew how to use his mouth to stoke a fire within her.

Pulling away from her, Jim waggled the shoe in her face. "I think I couldn't have made a better choice for someone to stand beside me. Look at you – this sheltered little wild bird from the Virginia grasslands come to the big city across the pond. How you are blossoming, my dear, and I am enjoying every moment."

Marilyn giggled as he tumbled her onto her back and rolled atop her.

Jim left the clothes abandoned and stared down at her. "Will you leave him?"

"I'm afraid…"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose against hers. "Don't be, I'll be with you. I have a stipend from Imperial College to help with living expenses. You have a job now. Ergo, we can afford a flat."

Marilyn reached up and ran her fingers over his chin.

Jim kissed her knuckles. "Come with me, I can't bear the thought of him returning and having you."

"Do you think we can have a flat within a week?"

A brilliant smiled flooded his face; leaving him looking his age for once. "You would be surprised."

Marilyn nodded.

Jim laughed and sank atop her; kissing her with more passion than he had yet lavished on her.

Within three days, Jim secured a small one bedroom flat in a good section of Kennington; the neighborhood was close enough to Camberwell for an easy commute to work. Jim's commute on the tube to Imperial would be a bit longer.

It was only a few blocks walk to the tube and bus stops. The market and a few pubs shared the same street as their building. It was a six floor walkup built just after the war; the façade brick and limestone. The inside was bland and furnished in a style neither cared for, but she was free to leave Edmund.

Marilyn did leave the Vicarage Grove flat only a day before Edmund returned home. She took only her clothes, cookbooks, a few mementos, and the Waterford vase.

Little did she know that Jim would be spending more time away from the flat than living there.


	6. Chapter 6

The day was particularly spectacular with cloudless blue skies with the sun blazing overhead. No Londoner in their right mind would have spent the day indoors. Jim Moriarty was no exception to such a rule. He enjoyed beautiful weather as much as the next person.

Seated on a park bench in Hyde Park, Jim studied a large weeping beech tree across the path from him.

He admired the grace and intricate nature of the living thing before him. He held a small bag of honey roasted cashews in one hand; the other rooting through the nuts until Jim found just the right one. He was particular about many things: the manner in which he styled his hair, the brand of aftershave he used, the foods he ingested, and how long he brushed his teeth.

Jim Moriarty didn't consider himself a health nutter, but he did firmly believe in eating right and exercising. Fat was something he loathed, not for aesthetic reasons, but because it symbolized indolence and Jim despised laziness. He firmly believed the mind and the body was one and had to be in motion consistently – unless sleep was truly needed.

A woman in her late forties strolled by with two teenagers. She was quite large; her buttocks jiggling like cottage cheese with every step she took. He frowned and lifted one eyebrow as he watched her from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

He idly wondered if he cut her arse open if the fat would seep out like bloody, clotted cream.

"Jim! You wanted to see me?"

He turned his attention to his visitor. "Philip, so glad you could join me. Have a seat." Jim waved the bag of cashews at the other man. "Care for a nut?"

"I'm allergic," Philip stated as he sat as far from Jim as possible without falling off the bench. "What can I do for you?"

Jim popped a cashew in his mouth and chewed; enjoying the buttery flavour laced with a hint of sweetness. "I understand you accepted a position working for your grandfather at Shad Sanderson. It's an investment bank, is it not?"

"Yeah," Philip answered slowly. "I will be working the New York desk. Bloody brilliant, most associates start off slaving over the Middle Eastern investments."

"How delicious," Jim remarked before finally looking at the other man. "I need someone in my corner who understands certain aspects of investment banking."

Philip stared at him for a moment; pushing his glasses up his greasy nose with a forefinger. "Do you need investing advice? It's a bit more complicated than a simple five minute meeting."

"How much will you be earning in salary working for your grandfather?"

The blunt question seemed to shock the other man. "Seventy-five thousand pounds plus benefits and stock options."

Jim nodded and chuckled. "What would you say if I told you that I could make you rich? I could put your salary package to utter shame… enough so that you would be tempted to slap old pappy upside the head for playing tight with you."

Philip blinked as though dazed. "Are you asking me to dabble in something illegal, Jim?"

"Dabbling is for amateurs, Sanderson." Jim smiled; his expression akin to that of a shark. "Have you ever considered broadening your horizons? The world is quite large and there are endless opportunities available if one is smart enough to seize upon them."

Philip coughed before glancing around surreptitiously. "Did the old man hire you to come out here and test me?" His voice rose in pitch and vehemence. "Did he tell you I nicked ten thousand pounds from my granny's rainy day account? Did he?!" He surged to his feet and stared pacing back and forth violently; spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted. "Oh, that smug old tosser thinks he's so morally superior to me! Forgive and forget he says… look here, the bastard hires my own mate to try and lure me into iniquity!"

Shock was not an emotion Jim often experienced. He was so surprised at the intense outburst from his normally shy acquaintance that he dropped his bag of cashews on the grass. Far from annoyed, though the loss of his afternoon snack was irksome, Jim was enjoying the show. He loved a good display of fire.

The fact that Sanderson had a thieving soul was like a dream come true.

Jim briefly wondered if there was such a thing as serendipity at work in the universe.

Sanderson raged and foamed at the mouth; shouting the most repulsive, expletive laced, hate filled remarks that Jim had ever heard.

Finally, Philip Sanderson slumped down on the end of the bench; his posture one of defeat.

"Are you quite finished?"

Sanderson remained quiet.

Jim laughed; the timbre low and grating. "I was not hired by your grandfather to test your morality. Amusing as the thought is, the premise is boring. Besides, I much prefer you the way you are."

"You do?"

"Absolutely, Sanderson, any man who steals from his own grandmother is someone I must have on my team." Jim sighed and his expression turned deadly stern. "Now, if you become a partner of mine and you steal from me that would be a very grave mistake on your part."

"What is all this talk of partnership about?"

Jim relaxed against the bench. "I have decided to start my own business."

Philip seemed to calm. "What sort of business?"

"Oh, I haven't decided on a title or name just yet. I suppose a consulting business of sorts." He grew serious. "I believe I will become a full-time consultant once I graduate from Imperial. Two years and I shall have my masters. I will then have more time to devote to said enterprise… should business prove to be brisk I shall rethink attending Imperial altogether."

"Is there or is there not something illegal about this?"

Jim released a rude snort. "Don't be obtuse, Sanderson. My consulting business will be aimed toward criminals. I need you to launder the money I make as well handle long term investments for me. You may even be required to handle payroll eventually, but I'm not certain if I want full-time employees or not." He rubbed his chin. "I really don't want to be bothered with insurance and benefits. Perhaps freelance employment would be better…"

"Do you understand how completely crackers you sound?"

"Insanity, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, Sanderson." Jim smirked. "I prefer to think that my brain is simply better evolved than the majority of my fellow humans. _Mores hominum atque ingenia penitus perspecta habēre._"

Philip simply stared.

"Oh, do try to keep up, Sanderson!" Jim was now highly annoyed. "You are not a stupid fellow. I can see your education was lacking in Latin. I said: I have a profound insight into human nature. Why not parlay my gift into financial security?"

"We could go to jail."

Jim shrugged. "True enough, but the coppers would have to catch us first." He jutted out his bottom lip and rolled his eyes. "I'm not too worried since no one at the Yard has the intellect to go up against me. However, if we get sloppy and broadcast the nature of our venture then we will be caught. I would prefer not to spend my life in Pentonville Prison so secrecy will be of the utmost importance."

Philip nodded absently as he watched an elderly couple pass. Finally, he turned back to Moriarty. "Count me in. Who else is involved?"

"Sebastian Moran," Jim replied succinctly. "I'm strategic planning and consultant, you are finances, and Moran is the enforcer. Between the three of us, we can make a good go of running a successful business. Just remember, Sanderson, I am the alpha and omega."

Philip nodded and stood. "I understand. When do we get started?"

"June," Moriarty replied. "The capital we need to commence operations will be arriving next month. Do you know any gifted computer programmers?"

"Aside from you?" Philip asked with a laugh. "No, I don't."

Jim hummed low in his throat. "We shall acquire one at a future date. Good day, Sanderson, and do wipe that morose expression from your face. Try to enjoy the weather and make hay whilst you can."

Sanderson snorted in laughter, shook his head, and headed down the path; spine straighter than when he'd arrived.

Jim tilted his head toward the sky as a slow smile stretched across his lips.

* * *

RCH Bank was far busier than Marilyn had anticipated and she loved it. She handled all Harris Forrester's mail and phone calls; setting up appointments with clients or bank staff from the main branch on Old Broad Street in the financial district. Filing, data entry, and arranging for Harris to lunch with his favorite clientele at a nearby restaurant were also part of her duties. Two weeks into the job, Marilyn wondered how she could have spent five years hold up in Edmund's flat.

The Vicarage Grove property had never been hers either in spirit or physical reality.

Marilyn was far happier in the tiny walk-up flat with its bland furnishings and cream-colored walls than she ever had been in Edmund's home. Jamie was often absent until late in the evenings, but she felt his presence nonetheless. The bathroom smelled of the sandalwood soap he bought at a local Indian grocery; his pillow perfumed by the citrus shampoo he favored. Jamie left biographies of Che Guavara, Robespierre, and Winston Churchill near his reading chair beside the window. He had a small bookstand filled to the brim with books on mathematics and computer science interspersed with choices that surprised her: poetry of Walt Whitman, Khalil Gibran, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, the novels of James Joyce, a volume of Voltaire, Plato, and Marcus Aurelius. Aside from Jamie's books, clothes, and toiletries, he brought precious little else with him in the way of personal effects.

He had a small radio/CD player complete with only four CDs: Vivaldi's Four Seasons, the Chieftains, Nina Simone, and Rossini. Whenever Jamie was in a particularly introspective mood, Marilyn noticed he listened to the Chieftains.

Jamie had added two framed photographs to the flat walls; one in the bedroom and one in the lounge.

The first was a small 8x10 black and white picture of Marilyn Monroe wearing a ballerina tutu and seated in a cane chair; curled over and smiling coyly at the camera. Her smile was playful, but there was sadness in her eyes that reminded Marilyn of Jamie.

In the lounge, the photo was much larger in a stark black frame. It was an old crofter's cottage with a peat roof, white-washed walls, and a deep green door. Smoke wafted toward the cloudless blue sky. pSheep grazed in the emerald field behind the homestead and there were rock walls running along one side. Despite the cheer of the sun and sky, Marilyn had a sense of foreboding whenever she looked at the picture. The loneliness of the spot gave a haunted atmosphere and she had no idea why Jamie loved it so.

Marilyn got on with Jamie, despite his ever-changing moods, as she never had Edmund.

In fact, her husband hadn't even bothered trying to find her. There had been no calls, no visits from the police to check on her welfare, not one attempt to look for her as far as Marilyn could divine. She could have been dead and it was clear that Edmund could have cared less.

She contacted an attorney and made an inquiry into a divorce. The older woman advised her to allow Edmund to file the paperwork.

Marilyn glanced at the clock beside her in alarm. She had worked past her lunch hour. Mr. Forrester insisted that she keep to an established routine.

Her stomach growled ominously.

Marilyn fished her purse out of the desk and locked her computer and her files. She now only had thirty minutes to find sustenance instead of an hour.

The air outside the bank was cool. She hurried along the sidewalk to a small pub just down the street from the RCH branch. The food was outstanding, cheap, and most importantly – the service was quick.

She was on the doorstep to the Morrington Arms when a familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Marilyn?"

She turned to find Edmund a few feet away. He looked as though he had been sleeping quite well and his clothes were as neat and clean as always. Dressed in a tweed suit, Edmund was watching her with wariness in his blue eyes.

"Edmund," she went to him reluctantly. "How have you been?"

A thundercloud crossed his features before dissipating. "Christ, Marilyn, use your brain! How do you think I've been? Worried, confused, angry. Why did you leave?"

Marilyn hugged her purse. "How did you find me?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I heard a rumour that you had secured employment. I wanted to see if you were all right. Why did you leave without so much as a note? I thought we had been relatively happy together."

"Three people can't contribute to a happy marriage, Edmund."

Edmund stared at her; his expression both stupefied and understanding. "Who told you?"

Marilyn shrugged. "I don't think the identity of the person matters."

He cleared his throat; straightening, his expression growing dark. "I heard another rumour that was very disturbing. I understand that you've been seen in the company of Jim Moriarty. In fact, I've been told you two are living together." Edmund pulled at his tie. "Jim hasn't returned any of my calls since he graduated. Strange, since he and I had been close."

She could feel her face burning, but no words could escape the lump in her throat.

"Jim is homosexual, Marilyn, no matter how he presents himself. The arse bandit in him won't be satisfied with your quim for long. He's eighteen and boys that age are horny; faithfulness isn't a real consideration for most teenage males." A cruel smile lit up Edmund's face. "Mark my words: Jim Moriarty will be fucking whoever he pleases for years to come whether he stays with you or not. You are risking your heart, your mind, and your health on a young man who doesn't have a clue what a mature relationship is, Marilyn. He will use you up and throw you away."

Marilyn fought back tears. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Edmund pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. "I have divorce papers. You will receive nothing. Take them home and read them carefully. I expect you to sign them without incident. Since you have been unfaithful, you haven't a leg to stand on if we go to court."

"What about you? I know you haven't been faithful either."

"I haven't been fucking a boy several years my junior with adjustment issues – you have. Any magistrate worth their salt will make your life a hell. Sign the papers." Edmund turned and headed down the street. She watched as he flagged a taxi.

The moment he was gone, Marilyn fled; her appetite gone.

* * *

Jim knew something was terribly wrong the moment he opened the flat door.

The lights were off, but the curtain were pulled back to flood the flat with pale, ambient light from the street. The shadow of a figure curled up on the sofa was barely discernible. His ears picked up steady breathing and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

He moved to turn on the nearest lamp.

"Please don't."

Marilyn's voice was pleading; anguished even.

The skin along his arms prickled and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. "Marilyn, what is it?"

"Where have you been?" Her voice was so soft, Jim nearly missed the question.

He rubbed at his nape. "I was studying at the university library."

Marilyn was quiet.

Jim approached her and sat on the low coffee table facing her. "What happened? You are clearly upset."

"Edmund approached me outside of work. He gave me divorce papers."

He frowned. "The fact Edmund wants a divorce is a beautiful thing. I hardly think you should make yourself ill over it."

Marilyn leaned forward in the half-light; her hand shaking so much the papers sounded like leaves in a brisk autumn breeze. Her face was unnaturally pale and wet with tears. "He knows about us, Jamie. Edmund named you in the divorce papers."

Jim reached out and took the papers. He laid them on the coffee table beside him before kissing her fingers. "Are you worried about me? I can take care of myself, Marilyn."

She clasped his head between her palms and gave him a watery smile. Pressing her lips against his temple, Marilyn released a pent-up breath. "I'm so glad you're home."

Jim Moriarty was worried. He slid one hand up into the thick, silky strands of her hair; his thumb stroking her cheek. The brine of her tears enraged him. Forcing himself to smile, Jim stood and gently pulled Marilyn up with him. He embraced her, burying his face in her neck. The sweet hint of musk and vanilla teased his senses, calming him.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's go to bed. Forget Edmund, forget everything."

She allowed him to lead her into the tiny box that served as their bedroom. The large bed took up most of the room aside from the wardrobe. He slipped off her robe and hung it on the back of the door before easing her down between the sheets. Sitting, Jim stroked her hair. "My poor Marilyn, you look so tired. I think you need a good kip. Will you rest for me?"

"Yes," she murmured dreamily.

Jim pressed a chaste kiss against her lips. "Go to sleep, darling. All will be well when you awake."

Marilyn obediently closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow. He waited patiently until her breathing slowed and it was clear sleep had claimed her. Jim pulled the blanket up around her shoulders before easing up from the mattress.

He padded out of the room silently; shutting the door behind him.

First, Jim flipped on the lights and then he snatched up the divorce papers. Reading, his rage only increased line by line. He threw the papers onto the couch. Jim slowly twisted his head to the side until a sickening crunch filled the air and the tension left him.

He picked up his keys and locked the flat door behind him. Flying down the stairs, Jim nearly knocked over one of the neighbors. Indignant shouts of _'Watch out!' 'You blooming idiot!'_ echoed in his ears as he raced for the lobby and the street beyond.

Jim went to the first phone booth he found. Digging change out of his pocket, he ducked inside and dialed the one person who could help him.

On the second ring, Sebastian Moran answered. "'Ello?"

"Where are we on the Mackenzie-Lyle project?" Jim blurted the question without preamble.

Sebastian sighed. "I've been to Maidstone and I've surveyed Mackenzie's house. She doesn't have any family living with her – just guests she takes in. I'll be ready to move in June as agreed."

Jim ran a hand through his hair. "No, I need you to move up the time line. Kill them this weekend."

"What the bloody hell are you thinking?!" Sebastian protested.

"Edmund knows that Marilyn has been sleeping with me; living with me. He served her with divorce papers and he is giving her until Monday to sign them. She will be utterly deprived of his money. The funds from the sale of the Vicarage Grove flat and Edmund's life insurance are going to help our business."

Sebastian was quiet a moment. "All right, I will take care of matters this weekend. Do you think Lyle will be traveling to Maidstone?"

"I have no doubt he will," Jim replied tartly. "Kill them both and make damn sure it looks like a murder-suicide perpetrated by Colleen Mackenzie."

"As you wish," Sebastian said in a winter-cold voice. "Don't forget my mate Alex and his little problem."

Jim tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes. "I have no intention of reneging on our bargain. Alex is to be my first client. Good night, Moran."

"Sod off and don't call me again tonight," Sebastian stated with a laugh.

Moriarty hung up the phone and leaned against the glass wall of the public phone box. He shook his head and returned slowly to the flat. His steps were heavy; as though his trainers were laden down with concrete. Each step of the six flights of stairs was excruciating in his absolute exhaustion.

He unlocked the door to the flat and eased himself inside; shutting the door and throwing the bolts.

To his everlasting relief, Marilyn was still fast asleep in their bed. Jim stripped quietly and slid under the covers. Marilyn sighed in her sleep and turned her face into his chest. He ghosted his fingers along her back as his mind wandered in search of solving the problem of secrecy… of protecting her.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: There is a mature adult scene included in this chapter.

* * *

"I have to go to work," Marilyn protested as he captured her hand; tugging her toward the bed. "I don't have time for this…"

A squeal escaped her throat as Jim unceremoniously jerked and she toppled across him.

He quickly dropped the book off the side of the bed; wincing at the resulting thump as it echoed through the room. Jim cleared his throat as he seized her hips. "You don't have to be in the office until nine. Today is Saturday after all." He slowly dragged her naked body up his own until her breasts were pressed against his bare chest. "You work until noon, yeah?"

Marilyn could feel how hard he was through the thin sheet; his arousal pressed against her belly. "Yes."

Jim gave her a smile that nearly stopped her heart. "I think," his voice dropped into a low, sexy purr. "You and me should take a little weekend trip. There's a holiday on Monday. I was thinking of a private little cottage in Herefordshire. We haven't celebrated my birthday properly."

"You want to take a trip into Herefordshire and stay in a cottage out in the middle of nowhere?" The skepticism in her voice drew a chuckle from him.

"I did live in rural Ireland until I was twelve."

She smirked. "Jim, you love city living. I cannot imagine you walking through cow pastures and enjoying it."

"My grandparents had a sheep farm." He was smiling broadly. "I rather like the peacefulness of the countryside. We could go fishing or tour some of the castles. You aren't going to make me beg, are you?"

Marilyn laughed before kissing his forehead. "No, I'm not. I would love a holiday with you." She rested her chin on his sternum and stared up at him. "Are you going to let me go to work?"

He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb. The shadows beneath his eyes were more pronounced; marking him as both exhausted and grave. Jim tilted her chin up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against her yielding mouth. Pulling back, he flicked his fingers toward the door. "Go on, off with you now before I change my mind."

She peeled her body away from his reluctantly. Dressing quickly, Marilyn tried not to acknowledge Jim as he watched her every movement. She had just buttoned her blouse when he cleared his throat. Turning, Marilyn smiled at him. "Yes?"

He arched one eyebrow and pointed at where his book lay haphazardly on the floor. "Would you mind handing me my book?" The throatiness of his voice aroused her.

Marilyn gracefully sank low and scooped up the biography. She held it out to him wordlessly.

Jim reached out; taking the book and skimming his fingers playfully along her wrists. "Thanks," he muttered. The burning lust in his eyes nearly had Marilyn stripping back down to nothing. Jim opened the book, slowly licked the pad of his forefinger, and began flipping through the pages to find where he left off. "See you later, darling."

He was no longer looking at her – Marilyn knew she had been dismissed.

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she grabbed her bag and left the flat.

* * *

Sebastian Moran would have been far more comfortable killing Edmund Lyle and Colleen Mackenzie with one of his scoped rifles… he was a crack shot and an expert marksman. However, Jim had been very particular about _how_ the couple died.

He stood quietly smoking outside a pub not ten minutes by foot to the Mackenzie house. A girl around his age with marvelous tits sauntered past; her dark, sloe eyes lingered on him with interest. Sebastian enjoyed the manner in which she swayed her bum to catch his attention. His cock stirred. With regret, he turned his attention back to his job.

A shag, not matter how hot, was not why he had come to Maidstone.

Sebastian savored the nicotine as it filled his lungs. The sun would be setting in less than two hours and he would solve Jim Moriarty's problem. He wasn't at all put off by the idea of killing an innocent woman. After all, who was really innocent in this day and age? Everyone had done something unsavory.

In his view, everyone deserved to die.

The idea of becoming a grim reaper was exceptionally gratifying to Sebastian.

He exhaled and watched as the faint traces of smoke rose up to the heavens.

A smile crossed his face as the light began to die.

* * *

The drive to Herefordshire had been long. Jim had asserted they rent a car, under her name, and drive instead of taking the train. He had no license, but insisted on driving. Marilyn had spent a great deal of the first hour worried sick they would be pulled over by the police and ticketed. Jim had proved an excellent driver and observed all the laws of the road.

Once they were in the county, he stopped for a bite to eat at a small pub off the beaten path.

They dined on lamb with mint jelly and rolls as soft and warm as a tropical breeze; loaded with pats of sweet cream butter. He ordered ales for both of them, which surprised her since he seemed to prefer wine, and a simple dessert of baked apples spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.

Jim's hand had been strong and warm against her arm; stroking her skin as they spoke about his studies and her job. Marilyn knew precious little about mathematics, but she listened to his enthusiasm. The conversation had fallen into a pleasant lull when she remembered the gift she had brought with her.

Digging into her purse, Marilyn unearthed the small black velvet box and laid it on the table. "I had almost forgotten your birthday present."

Moriarty studied the box with a raised brow for a long time before speaking. "Marilyn, darling, you agreed to take a holiday with me. I feel that is more than generous."

She reached across the table and pushed the box with her forefinger until it came to rest beside his pint glass. "I wanted to buy you a proper gift. I hope you like it."

"I'm sure it will be brilliant." He grasped the box and opened it.

Marilyn watched as Jim's eyes went wide. A small smirk crossed his lips that grew into a large grin. He delicately picked up the piece and held it up; clasped gently between his thumb and forefinger.

"Is this how you see me?"

She smiled. "You are sleek and clever just like that fox. Do you like it?"

Jim chuckled. "How could I not? You have the best taste, Marilyn."

"Eighteen karat gold," she supplied. "I wanted to get you something special." The tie pin was well executed in yellow gold with the small head exceptionally sculpted to resemble a fox.

"I'll treasure it, I promise you." Jim carefully laid the elegant pin back in the box before closing it. He tucked the small case into his coat pocket. "Shall we go on? I think we should get to our cottage before sunset."

Marilyn nodded. She watched him pay the bill and chat with the server. Resting her chin in her hand, she wondered if her life could get any better. The only thing that could ruin it was Edmund dragging Jim's name through the mud in court. Edmund could destroy Jim's career and reputation before the younger man had a chance.

The thought of someone trying to hurt Jim made her ill. Her lips twisted into a frown.

Jim's soft voice broke into her thoughts. "Marilyn, darling, I thought our holiday was for us."

Marilyn looked at him; amazed at his seeming ability to read her mind. "How did you know?"

He raised one eyebrow; his expression one of boredom. "Whenever you frown like that, Edmund is involved. Can we not leave him in London?"

She nodded and allowed him to help her up. "Yes we can. I promise I won't give him another thought."

"I intend to hold you to that promise." Jim wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side as they emerged from the pub into the cool evening air. "We're going to be far too occupied to have a solid thought in our heads."

The heat and the promise in Jim's eyes sent a shiver up Marilyn's spine.

* * *

Darkness had settled like a shroud as Sebastian Moran marched down the country lane leading to Marsh House, Colleen Mackenzie's home. He could feel the semi-automatic pistol slapping against his hip as his jacket shifted while he walked.

Marsh House was located on a quiet, unpaved road on enough land that the nearest neighbor was the pub ten minutes back. Thick copses of beech trees surrounded an old house built in the 1700's. Dark timber and white stucco lent the place a strange, unique style that Sebastian thought more Spanish than English. The gardens were lush and filled with peonies, rosebushes, lavender, and other varieties of flowers he was unfamiliar with.

"Fucking flowers," he scoffed under his breath as he passed under a pergola.

The top floor of the house had no lights on at all; every one of the windows dark. The ground floor was a different story. Golden light poured from the windows like honey from the comb. He edged his way closer, sticking to the shadows.

Sebastian's hearing was remarkable – he made full use of this particular gift. Soft conversation spilled out of one of the open windows. Professor Lyle's slight nasally tone was followed by the rolling Scottish brogue of a woman; she had a lovely voice. He had never understood Jim's fascination with Lyle.

Edmund Lyle was a self-righteous old prick insofar as Sebastian was concerned. He had taken the required classes taught by Lyle and learned to hate the old sod with a passion. Lyle seemed to believe himself better than everyone else.

A devious smirk twisted Sebastian's lips upward.

'_You might be smart; Lyle, but you are a moron next to Jim.'_ The thought made Sebastian want to laugh.

He crept close to the open kitchen door. Sliding close to the casement, Sebastian eased himself into a position in which he had a clear view into the room. Colleen Mackenzie had her back to him as she stood at the stove stirring a pot. Lyle was seated at the table drinking wine and studying his phone.

Sebastian pulled out the gun; his thumb eased the safety off. He had watched the pair and knew no one else was at the house. Adrenaline surged through him as his blood raced through his veins; aided by the wild beating of his heart. He wasn't nervous, but excited.

He drew in a steadying breath.

Without hesitation, Sebastian opened the screen door and walked into the kitchen of Marsh House.

Edmund Lyle stared at him; confusion written across his aristocratic features. "Sebastian Moran? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" His blue eyes went wide as they rested on the weapon Sebastian was holding at his side. "Wait just a minute…"

"Shut up and put down the mobile." Sebastian stated coldly. "Miss Mackenzie, please step away from the stove."

Colleen Mackenzie had turned upon hearing Lyle's exclamation. She stood with a large spoon dripping spaghetti sauce on the lovely hardwood floor; her dark eyes wide and filled with absolute terror. She wasn't a beautiful woman; merely attractive in Sebastian's opinion. Colleen was roomy in the hips with smallish breasts and a double chin coming on.

She stumbled away from the stove; still clutching the spoon and trailing sauce behind her. Colleen backed herself into a corner of the cabinets. "Edmund," she gasped. "Do you know this man?"

Edmund was staring at him. "I do. What do you think you're playing at?"

Sebastian crossed the room in five steps. He hadn't bothered with a silencer since they were far enough from town to not attract attention. One of his friend's was quite talented in the art of document forgery… enough so that he could make a gun license appear legitimate. Sebastian carried the forged document with Colleen's name in his pocket.

Jim had said make the crime look like a murder-suicide and that was exactly what Sebastian intended to do.

Sebastian shrugged. "Oh, I dunno, Professor Lyle, playing isn't what I had in mind. Jim Moriarty sends his greetings by the way. He wanted me to tell you that Marilyn is in good hands." He chuckled; the sound icy in the warm kitchen. "I bet she's getting a good shagging right now. Moriarty is mad for her."

Lyle's opened his mouth to retort…

Sebastian lifted his arm, aimed the gun directly between the older man's eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot exploded through the room like a cannon. Blood, brain, and shards of bone spattered from the back of Lyle's head like gory rain. The cream-colored cabinets behind him were covered in a thin patina of scarlet droplets and pin-prick sized bits of flesh.

Lyle remained upright for five seconds before falling face down into a plate of cheese and crackers; the back of his head completely gone. His slack hand knocked over the wine glass he had been holding. The contents of the glass slowly spread over the starched white linen table cloth like liquid ruby.

The screams of Colleen Mackenzie reverberated in Sebastian's ears as his hearing slowly returned.

He sighed. "What a fucking mess!" Sebastian complained. "Note to self – next time you kill someone close range, bring earplugs. God, I swear I almost went deaf." Turning to Colleen, he gestured towards his ear. "Was the shot abysmally loud or was it just me? I normally use plugs at the gun range. I shan't forget them again."

Colleen Mackenzie was half-standing, half-kneeling against the cupboards near the stove. He noted with satisfaction the blood spatter hadn't reached her side of the kitchen. Her mascara was running beneath her eyes lending her the appearance of a cheap street tart. She was shivering and holding the spoon against her chest as she screamed until she was hoarse.

Sebastian frowned. "Not up to for a friendly chat at the moment? I don't blame you. I'm sure this was a terrible shock." He skirted around the blood specked flooring as he approached her.

Colleen's eyes went wide and she tried to scramble up; instead managing to fall on her plump arse. "Please don't kill me," she begged in a guttural voice. "I don't want to die." Her sobs filled the kitchen along with the bubbling of the sauce pot on the stove and the dripping of Lyle's blood onto the floor.

Sebastian felt a moment of sympathy for the unlucky woman; the emotion lasted less than a second. He nodded thoughtfully. "I know and if it were up to me, I would have taken care of the anal prick elsewhere." Sebastian cleared his throat. "That being said, I have orders. The boss wants you taken care of." She wailed and he winced. "Sorry."

He squatted so he was level with her and pointed the gun at her temple. Sebastian pulled the trigger as she squeezed her eyes shut.

The shot echoed in his ears loud as thunder; his hearing reduced to a terrible buzz that left him deaf for just a moment. Sebastian shook his head in disgust. "Definitely need earplugs at close range." He picked up Colleen Mackenzie's limp hand and pressed the gun into it.

Curling her finger around the trigger, he fired a shot into the ceiling. Gun powder residue was needed on her hand. Once the shot was fired, he allowed her hand to fall at her side. The butt rested in her palm with her fingers splayed.

Sebastian stood and studied his work. "Not half bad," he conceded. "I should give Moriarty a call." He inched his way into the reception room. Rifling about her desk in the corner, he found a cache of Colleen's important papers. He stuffed the forged gun license between her travel visa and her parent's marriage license.

He finished and left the way he came.

Sebastian was almost at the pub when he remembered to strip off the gloves he was wearing. Stuffing them into his pockets, he came close to the glass and studied his reflection in the streetlight. There wasn't a trace of blood to be seen.

A public phone box stood on the corner. Sebastian eased inside and closed the door. He called a familiar number and listened to the ringing. He was aware Jim and Marilyn were spending the weekend in Herefordshire. Jim wanted an alibi that airtight just in case one of the coppers who investigated was the suspicious sort.

Finally, Marilyn's answering machine picked up.

'_Hello, you have reached the residence of Marilyn and Jim. We can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.'_ Marilyn's voice was soft and gentle with a sweetly Southern accent that Sebastian found interesting.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "Jim, its Sebastian. Sorry I missed you. I just wanted you to know that I won the game and we'll talk soon." Hanging up, he heaved a great sigh and rolled his shoulders. "I need a pint."

* * *

"Jamie…" Marilyn moaned his name as he twisted his hips; pounding against her. She was crushed between the wall and the whip chord lean body of Jim Moriarty. He held her close, his hands gripping her hips so tightly that she could feel the bruises forming.

She wrapped her legs around his hips; her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Jim's eyes were wide open and staring into hers as he thrust into her. Sweat beads dotted his brow and the muscles in his neck stood out in stark relief as he moved. The rough sound of his breathing only made Marilyn wetter. He looked down; his eyes pinned to her breasts as they bounced in cadence with his every movement.

"Say it again," he demanded in a low, rasping voice.

Marilyn rested her head against the plaster wall. "Jamie, please."

Jim's dark eyes flickered up to hers. He bared his teeth; his face a mask of agonized pleasure as he came to a stop. He held her pinned against the wall like a butterfly under glass. "No," he muttered harshly. "You know what I want to hear. Tell me again, Marilyn, or I'll stop."

She gasped as she felt him throb deep within her. "Jamie, don't stop," Marilyn mewled softly.

"Say it." The demand was spat from between his gritted teeth.

"I love you." The words had slipped out of her mouth as he paid homage to her breasts while they were on the couch earlier. He had looked up at her with a shocked expression; his fringe casting a shadow over his eyes. Jim hadn't returned the sentiment vocally. Instead, he had become passionate to the point of violence.

Marilyn now possessed a torn lace bra and shredded panties. She was covered with bite marks, none of which broke the skin, and her body was sore. Jim's passion once roused inevitably led to bruising and sore feminine bits. She didn't mind because his intent was never violence itself. He was so young and yet he had such superior sexual experience she felt like a virginal girl every time she was with him.

Jim closed his eyes and rested his forehead between her breasts.

He pulled out before sinking back into her. "Do you mean it?" Jim asked as he rubbed his stubble-covered cheek against the soft, silky skin of her chest. His hips moved in and out of her so slowly she was being driven mad.

"Yes!" Marilyn cried out.

Jim kissed the swell of her breast.

She wound her fingers through his hair; the short, dark locks were damp with sweat. "I love you, Jamie."

A ragged groan escaped his throat as he quickened his pace. His raw strength surprised her; his body was lithe, almost slender. He tilted his head so he could watch her face as he quickened the pace. "Touch yourself," Jim instructed her softly. "I want to watch you come."

Marilyn slid one hand from his hair. She brushed the side of his face before running her fingertips down his chest. His eyes watched the progress of her hand with rapt attention. She ran her fingers across her sex; finding the place Jim taught her to caress. Between his hard, staccato thrusts and her fingers, Marilyn was lost.

She let out a soft cry; her head falling back as her body tightened in completion.

Jim gasped out a strangled expletive as he pounded against her; his thrusts growing increasing desperate. He pulled in a deep breath before going stiff against her. Jim's dark eyes went wide before rolling up in his head. "Marilyn…" he whispered before resting his head in the crook of her neck.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders; pressing small, soft kisses against his neck, the side of his face, and his sweaty brow. A sigh of disappointment escaped her as he pulled back and out of her. Jim turned and carried Marilyn to the couch.

Jim laid her down. He brushed a hand across his face, wiping away his sweat. "One day, woman, you are going to be the death of me."

She smiled and watched him as he pulled off the condom and crossed the room to throw it in the bin.

Jim turned and ran a hand lazily over his stomach. "I think we should take a shower. We'll stink something awful by morning. Can you manage to walk?"

"You can't carry me?" Marilyn teased with a gleam in her eye.

He laughed and pushed back the sweaty fringe from his forehead. "I'm well and truly knackered." Jim held out his hand. "Come along."

She sighed dramatically and gained her feet. Crossing the room on unsteady legs, Marilyn took his hand and let him pull her down the tiny hall to the loo.

The cottage was small: a lounge/kitchen combination with one bedroom and a loo. Traditional and made from grey stone with plaster walls and old oak floors, she found the place charming. The loo itself was shiny and new with immaculate white tiles on the floor and walls and a large shower built for two. She had been surprised by the luxury in a place clearly made for simplicity.

Jim and Marilyn showered in pleasant silence.

Later, wrapped in his arms, she rested her head on his chest. "I love this place."

He smiled; his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. "One day, I will buy you a country house here and we will come out every weekend."

Marilyn pressed a kiss against his sternum. "I would like that. Do you think…" Marilyn's voice trailed off and she shook her head. "Never mind, Jamie, I was having a silly thought."

Jim touched her hair. "I want to hear your silly thought."

"Do you think that you and I will be together for a long time?"

He frowned. "Why wouldn't we be together?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"You worry too much, I see it." Jim ran a hand over his face before looking down at her. "Let me do the worrying, Marilyn. I'm a natural born planner of sorts. I don't want you burdened with such thoughts. One of us should be carefree."

Marilyn propped herself up on an elbow. "You're younger than me. You should be carefree, Jim. I sometimes think you should be out seeing girls your own age…"

Jim flipped them so that she was under him. His expression was dark as he gazed down at her; the muscle in his jaw throbbing. "Don't ever mention such rubbish to me again." He frowned. "I have been with girls my own age – loads of times. They are silly and vapid with very little thought of anything aside from finding the right product to poof their hair. I abhor daftness in a female. I am with you and you are with me."

"Jamie, don't be angry."

"You belong to me," Jim continued stubbornly. "I have no intention of letting you go."

She cupped his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He let out a sigh and sank down against her; pressing a soft kiss against her temple. "I know."

"I don't want anyone to hurt you."

Jim smiled against her skin. "No one is going to hurt me, darling. I promise you. I've been taking care of myself for a very long time."

Marilyn caught his gaze. "You never talk about your family."

His smile turned hard, fake. "No, I do not."

"Are they still alive?" She tried to smile. "I would never let my son go off to London to study without me there to watch over him."

A harsh, high-pitched laugh escaped his throat. Jim's voice was higher than normal. "Yeah, but that's because you have a heart, Marilyn. You are a good person." He stopped laughing and stared down at her stonily. "You would love your child. Not everyone is privileged to have parents like you."

"Did they hurt you?" Marilyn was flooded with concern.

He snorted and rolled to the side; curling himself around her. "Not in the manner in which you're thinking. My parents didn't have enough interest to bother with hurting me. I never existed to them. I was shipped off to a boy's school in Sussex when I turned twelve. I haven't seen them since."

Marilyn was appalled. "Jamie, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replied brusquely. "My mother was a stupid bitch more interested in chasing her friend's husbands than paying any mind to her own child. My father, he was so enraptured with work he was never home. I consider myself quite lucky to have escaped that house."

She kissed him. "No one should have to suffer like that as a child."

"People suffer, people die," he mocked coldly. "Try not to trouble yourself too much, Marilyn. You'll just end up with a broken heart."

Marilyn shook her head. "No, you cannot fumble through life not caring about anyone no matter how badly people hurt you."

Jim stared at her for a long moment before smiling at her; his eyes warm. "Sweet Marilyn with her tender heart. You are unlike anyone I've ever known."

"I'm older than you," she reminded him gently. "Jamie, you might change your mind when I'm no longer youthful."

He shook with silent laughter before kissing her shoulder. "No, I will never let you go. Not now, not when your forty and worried about a few strands of silver hair, and not when your eighty and covered with wrinkles. I'm afraid you're stuck with me for life."

Marilyn simply let Jim hold her.

* * *

The next two days had passed with Marilyn blissfully content. Jim had insisted they hike one day. The last day he found some bookstores in a small, quaint town. He purchased a volume of Robert Burn's work for her. They ate, drank, and made love lustily.

Marilyn napped on the way back to London.

Jim found them a cab after they returned the rental car. He was quiet, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She snuggled against him and breathed in the scent of his cologne. The taxi pulled in front of their building and Marilyn noticed a tall man standing on the steps.

He had a blond crew cut and wore a rumpled black suit as though he had been wearing his clothes for some time. There was something about his piercing blue eyes that made Marilyn want to look away from him. The man wasn't just looking at her and Jim; he was looking into them.

Jim didn't seem to be bothered at all. He paid the driver and tipped him before gathering their bags. "Come on, Marilyn. You have work in the morning."

She followed him reluctantly.

They were at the doors to the building when the man approached them.

"Marilyn Lyle?" He asked in a deep voice.

Jim turned and studied the man with nonchalance. "Who is asking?"

The man reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a badge. "I'm Sargent Paul Westmore of the Maidstone Police. I've been waiting here for nearly an hour in hopes of catching Mrs. Lyle."

Jim looked at Marilyn and nodded.

"Yes, I'm Marilyn Lyle." She clutched her purse against her chest; the blood running sluggishly through her veins. "How can I help you?"

Westmore's expression was grave and composed. "I would prefer speaking with you both in private."

She nodded. "Yes, of course. Please follow us."

The walk up six flights of stairs was never as long as it was on this night. Jim was utterly silent as he carried the bags. She swore Westmore's eyes were burning a hole in her back the entire time.

Once they were ensconced in the flat and the door shut, Westmore seemed graver than he had previously. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Lyle."

"What is it?" Marilyn had a terrible feeling.

Sargent Westmore sighed. "Your husband, Edmund Lyle, was murdered three days ago in Maidstone. I wanted to deliver the news in person rather than leave a message on your answering machine."

Marilyn stared him. "Edmund is dead? That isn't possible. I can't believe it."

"He was shot by Colleen Mackenzie." The Sargent looked uncomfortable. "She killed herself. We believe there was a domestic incident preceding the murder. Friends of Miss Mackenzie said she was worried that after Edmund divorced you he was planning on moving to Paris… alone."

Marilyn's knees gave out and she found herself on the floor. Jim was suddenly beside her; pulling her up and placing her on the couch.

"Professor Lyle was an unpleasant man," Jim stated softly. "He surely didn't deserve to die like this."

Westmore eyed him thoughtfully. "No one does. I understand from one of the neighbors that you and Mrs. Lyle were on holiday in Herefordshire for the weekend."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, Professor Lyle had served Marilyn with divorce papers. We decided we needed a bit of cheer and a change of scenery."

Marilyn stared at the floor; not hearing the conversation except in small snatches that she was unable to make sense of. Instead, she thought about the man who had told her stories of his homeland. The man who had offered her a home and kindness, if not love; that man was dead.

She covered her mouth with both hands.

Jim shook hands with Westmore and escorted him out of their flat. A moment later he returned; standing in front of her with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. He cocked his head and watched her.

"Marilyn, look at me."

She turned watery eyes up at him.

"You're going to be fine, I promise you." Jim's face was etched with fatigue and emotion. "I'm going to take care of you from now on."

Marilyn held out her arms to him and Jim sat beside her; embracing her tightly. He buried his face into the crook of her neck. His hands stroked her hair as he rocked her back and forth. Jim didn't say one word as she wept.


	8. Chapter 8

Edmund's funeral had been a disaster. His close friends shunned Marilyn as though she had the Scarlet Letter tattooed across her forehead. Jim had insisted on attending the funeral with her; she was grateful for his support. He cooked dinner at their flat and held her when she had nightmares. Jim didn't belittle her feelings or become cross when she seemed down in the dumps.

Marilyn had noticed a change in Jim after the funeral.

He had always been confident, almost brash, but now he seemed doubly so. Jim was cheerful nearly all the time; his up and down moodiness seeming to disappear overnight.

Marilyn returned to work. She agreed when Jim persuaded her to allow a friend from his King's College days to handle the money from Edmund's estate. Since the divorce proceedings hadn't yet started, Marilyn had inherited the Vicarage Grove flat. There had been life insurance, both private and through the university, as well as investment accounts dating back to Edmund's youth. He also had his retirement accounts through King's College.

All told, Marilyn had inherited two million pounds.

Every last quid had been entrusted to Philip Sanderson at the posh investment bank Shad Sanderson.

Sebastian rolled his eyes as Alex King kissed the back of Jim Moriarty's hands like he was the fucking pope. There was expressing gratitude… and then there was behaving in an unseemly manner. He reckoned Alex's behavior fell into the later.

Alex finally released Jim's hands.

Sebastian had to stifle a laugh as Jim immediately thrust both into his trouser pockets. The stiff smile and slightly wide eyes were tell-tale signs that Moriarty was annoyed to those in the know. Jim had begun to tap one foot against the concrete as he nodded pleasantly while Alex sniveled before him.

"I can't thank you enough, Mr. Moriarty – you are a fucking genius, you are!"

Jim winced at the foul language; fake smile dutifully pasted across his face. "Glad to be of service. If you need help again, feel free to call." He stiffened his shoulders. "Just keep in mind that my next consultation will cost you a percentage of the profit."

"How much do you want?" Alex wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, but he understood money.

Jim shrugged slowly; hands still firmly in his pockets. "The percentage will depend on the job. If I arrange to smuggle another ill-gotten painting out of the country – my fee will be twenty percent. Other more taxing consultations would be dealt with on a case by case basis and the percentage determined accordingly."

Sebastian was in awe of Moriarty the more time he spent in his presence. Jim had arrange for the painting Alex nicked to be cut from its frame, specially sealed, and packed into a jumbo-sized container of clotted cream bound for France. The customs agents were simply not going to wade through a food product. Jim had advertised in a small, discerning Paris newspaper to find a buyer for Alex's piece. A retired Austrian real estate mogul with a large bank account and few scruples replied. They traded bids through an old code Jim found that had been used during World War II by the Allies.

Alex was now fifty-five thousand pounds richer.

Jim had foregone his commission in trade for Sebastian killing Edmund Lyle and Colleen Mackenzie. In return, Jim received Sebastian's friendship and a devoted client in Alex King. Word of mouth was going to be key to building a business catering to entrepreneurs involved in illegal trades.

Alex nodded. "Sounds fair enough, Mr. Moriarty. I have a friend who happens to be in a bit of a bind as well."

Jim's eyebrows rose. "Do tell."

Sebastian relaxed in his chair and observed his boss in action.

* * *

_**Two years later… 1996**_

A sharp rap sounded on the office door, reverberating through the room.

Marilyn pulled off her reading glasses and set them on the desk. "Come in."

The door opened and none other than James Moriarty stepped through. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored black suit with a fuchsia silk tie and the Gucci shoes she had bought him a few years earlier. His hair had just been cut and was slicked back showing off his handsome face.

He leaned against the door jamb. "It is seven o'clock, darling. All work and no play make Marilyn a dull girl."

She laughed. "I take it you're all done for the day yourself."

Marilyn had legally changed her name back to Porter a few months after Edmund's death. She had thrown herself into her work at RCH. Mr. Forrester had recommended her for a position as a personal assistant in the trust department at the main branch. Within the past year, Marilyn had received a promotion to trust officer. She had her own office… well it was more like a closet with a view of the large skyscraper next door, but it was hers. Marilyn had been assigned three accounts with the promise of more if she did well. She was determined to make assistant vice president.

Jim nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets as he stepped into her office. "I was thinking we could go out to dinner tonight. I have something I wish to discuss with you."

The sudden seriousness in his voice wiped the smile from her face. "Jamie is anything wrong?"

"We'll talk about it at dinner," he replied carefully. "The matter is delicate and private." Jim cast his head toward the door.

She nodded and stood to gather her purse and overcoat. The weather was tricky in April; some days gorgeous and others damp and miserable.

He rested his hand on the small of her back on the lift as they descended toward the lobby. The two of them often fell into comfortable silences when together. There was no sense of strain on Jim's part tonight so Marilyn was curious about what topic he wanted to discuss rather than worried.

Once on the pavement, he flagged a taxi and ushered her inside.

"Brennan's please."

She raised one eyebrow as she studied him. "Expensive."

Jim smirked. "I think the splurge will be worth it."

Brennan's was an exclusive restaurant which served traditional Irish food cooked to perfection by a prestigious chef. A client of Jim's had treated him six months earlier and Jim had raved about the place ever since. It was nigh impossible to get a reservation, but Jim had become friendly with the owner so he was always welcome.

Once they had arrived and were situated in a dark booth in the far corner, Jim finally seemed to relax. He ordered their dinner and asked that a bottle of champagne be brought to the table. Once the waiter disappeared, Marilyn laughed.

"What on earth is going on here?"

Jim took her hand; his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. "I cracked the one million mark."

She stared at him in shock. "Are you serious?"

Jim had withdrawn from Imperial College three months after Edmund's death. He had told her he was opening a consulting firm with two friends that specialized in assisting people and corporations with problems find resolutions. To an outsider, Marilyn realized it seem a strange career choice for a young man with a mathematics degree to choose. She had her doubts, which she never voiced, but she supported Jim's choice the best she could.

He had rented a posh office space in the financial district with Sebastian Moran. The other partner was the young man handling her account at the famous investment bank, Shad Sanderson, and lent a hand with the financial end of the operation. Knowing that Moran came from a wealthy family, she never questioned how Jim afforded the office on Old Broad Street.

"Deadly serious," Jim leaned forward, smiling. "I have one million quid in my bank account. I have been doing some serious thinking."

"Oh?"

He nodded and wrapped his arm around her shoulders; drawing her against his side. "I want to celebrate this momentous event by doing something special."

Marilyn laughed. "Like what?"

Jim cast his eyes everywhere but in her direction; a flirty smile on his face. "Oh I don't know…" He chuckled when she whacked him lightly on the arm. His dark eyes turned to her. "I've been thinking for quite some time we ought to take the next step in our relationship."

Marilyn stared in shock as Jim pulled a small, dark blue velvet box from his pocket. He set the box on the table directly in front of her.

"Sur-_prise_!" Jim warbled in his teasing, sing-song voice. "Will you marry me, Marilyn?"

She stared at the box before turning teary eyes on the young man before her. "Yes," Marilyn murmured before burying her face in Jim's neck. She kissed his throat and relaxed as his arms came up around her. "Yes, I'll marry you James Moriarty."

"Well, I am the envy of all mankind. I think you are the first woman to accept a proposal without actually seeing her engagement ring." Jim joked as he kissed her temple before pushing her back. He opened the box to reveal a white gold band with a channel of small, sparking diamonds. "I thought an eternity band very appropriate. I'll buy you another ring if this one displeases you."

The tears leaked from her eyes as he slid it on her ring finger. "I love it, Jamie."

He kissed her softly in response.

* * *

George Marsden unrolled his morning newspaper and sighed as he sank into his chair. "Tupper Lawrence was killed last night in Millwall. I thought you sent him to meet with that upstart."

The woman across from him frowned. She had been beautiful once, but the hard life of being his right-hand woman had taken a toll on her. Now in her early forties, as was Marsden, she was merely a ghost of the fresh young girl she had once been.

"I sent Tupper to meet with that Moriarty character as you requested." Nigella's expression was one of confusion. "Moriarty has an office in the financial district. Tupper had no business I know of in Millwall."

George frowned and lowered the paper until their eyes met across the large, elegantly appointed reception room. "Good Lord, Nigella! Think for a moment as I pay you to do! Tupper meets with Mr. Moriarty and gives him our little cease and desist order on interfering with Lord Fortescue and ends up dead in a rubbish bin. Do you not see the connection?"

Nigella Grace grew flustered. "That little Irish shit wouldn't dare!"

Lowering his paper, George shook his head sadly. "I have found peasants on occasion to be quite uppity; at times they are the most daring."

He was now vexed. Tupper had been George's best public relations man. Nigella handled the dirty backroom arrangements to deal with all the problems that arose in their business. Tupper had pressed the flesh and cut the deals which were so lucrative to him.

George Marsden had been dealt a severe blow. He was not a friendly, charismatic sort of man. Finding another employee like Tupper Lawrence was going to cause him no end of difficulties. His business, for the most part, was legitimate – brokering contracts between companies and handling their investments.

There were times George had to dip his toes into the filth of London's seedy underbelly in order to transact business. His status in society and his connections to both the government and people of high importance carried weight even among the unwashed masses who shunned the light in favor of illegitimate dealings.

No one fucked with George Marsden.

He shook his head. "Send Henry to the morgue for Tupper. You get in touch with your contacts at the Yard and figure out what the hell happened. I want answers. Damned poor form that I find out about my best man in this manner. Not only should this never have occurred – we should have known prior to the goddamned papers!"

"Yes sir," Nigella had paled considerably. "What would you like me to do about Moriarty?"

George snorted. "For the present, I want you to do nothing. Do not contact anyone in his organization. I know exactly who was responsible. We are going to perform our due diligence."

She lifted her chin and smoothed her skirt. "And then?"

He sighed; the sound reminiscent of an autumn wind rattling the branches of leafless trees. "Once you have completed your investigation, we will pay Mr. Moriarty back in kind. Find out everything about the little bastard. I want to hurt him where it counts – we will only have one shot at teaching him a lesson."

Nigella nodded and turned to leave the room.

At the massive double doors, she hesitated and smiled at the young woman standing just outside. "Good morning, Corinne. Would you care to go in? George has finished with business."

George tossed the paper on a nearby table and immediately took to his feet upon hearing Nigella. He ran his hands down his suit and refrained from doing the same to his greying hair. Of all the women he had known in his life, none was more precious to him than this one.

Corinne Phalen was a rising star on the London opera scene. She was a lovely girl of twenty with the most breathtaking mezzo soprano voice George had ever heard. Understudy at the London Metropolitan Opera, he had no doubt she would one day be the lead mezzo soprano.

He listened to Corinne exchange some pleasantries with Nigella before she glided into the room.

Corinne wore a simple black skirt and a buttercup-colored peasant blouse which emphasized the golden highlights in her lemony blonde locks. She was elegant in her simplicity and it was one of the reasons he had fallen so hard for the chit. There was something inherently artless about her. Corinne had never asked him for anything since he had pursued and won her over.

She was quintessential English beauty – golden-haired and blue-eyed with a peaches and cream complexion. Her loveliness was only surpassed by her kindness; a quality George had not come to appreciate in women until only recently.

George captured her hand and kissed it. "Corinne, you look ravishing this morning."

She laughed; the sound not unlike the splash of a crystalline brook dashing against its embankment. "George, I look the part of a charwoman today. Are you coming to the fundraiser this evening? Alexander was hoping to speak with you."

"I will do my best," he assured her smoothly. George was aware that Alexander Petronov was hoping to secure a rather large donation from him for the Met. With Tupper's death, he had far more important matters that required his supervision. "Isn't Mycroft Holmes attending?"

Corinne nodded carefully. "He told me was coming."

Mycroft Holmes was an extraordinary man… perhaps the most powerful man in the British government. His intellect was legendary, as was his ruthlessness. George disliked Holmes cold, pompous demeanor, but he was a useful ally so George catered to Mycroft's whims and infrequent requests. For so wise a man, Mycroft was also somewhat dense.

After all, George mused, why would any man willingly allow Corinne to leave him?

Corinne had been Mycroft's fancy of the month before George had won her away from the younger man. It hadn't been hard – Holmes spent his life buried in his government office under a mound of tedious paperwork. Seeing to the demands of the powerful and quashing any threats to Britain left Mycroft little time to spend with Corinne; it had been relatively easy to pry her away from Holmes.

George didn't begrudge Corinne's continuing friendship with Mycroft. He was well aware that Mycroft held a distinct distaste for dalliances with attached ladies. A rumor had circulated that Holmes was afraid of venereal disease; though George didn't believe that for an instant.

He smiled at her. "Well, if I am unable to attend you will have someone to dance with.

"Mycroft despises dancing," she answered with a brief, humorless laugh.

George chuckled and reached out. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Inspire him."

Corinne merely raised her brow.

"I'll do my best, but I can't promise I will be there."

She nodded and quickly kissed him on the cheek. "I understand. Mycroft mentioned he hoped to see you at the fundraiser as well."

George sighed. "I believe he will understand my absence if I don't make it. Now scuttle, my sweet. I have to be off."

Corinne nodded; her eyes lingered on him for some time before she turned on her heel and left.

George marched to the nearest window and stared out at the carefully manicured gardens below. He was going to repay James Moriarty threefold for the loss of Tupper Lawrence.

"I will make you pay," he hissed quietly.

* * *

Sebastian Moran sat quietly in his customary chair; head leaning against his palm as he listened to the young woman seated across from him. Moriarty was standing at the floor to ceiling windows, hands in his pockets, looking out. He nodded occasionally, but was utterly silent as the potential client spoke.

"… is an utter arse. He beats my mother and she just takes it. One day, he's going to kill her."

Denise Lamb was only nineteen, just a year younger than Moriarty. She looked a decade older with great black bags beneath her eyes which spoke of too little sleep and too much worry. She was the daughter of a police sergeant who spent his evenings beating his wife to a bloody pulp. Denise had tried reporting the abuse, but gave up after her father's partner took the complaint. Her father had beaten Denise so badly she had trouble walking. She learned her lesson that night.

There were whispers in the pub where she worked; rumors of a man who could make your problem disappear for the right price. It had taken months to track down someone who confirmed the rumors to be true; another month of begging for the introduction.

Moran had vetted her story to make sure she wasn't working the Yard.

Moriarty had agreed to listen to Denise.

Jim turned from the magnificent view of the nearby skyscrapers. He wore an affable, concerned smile. "I am terribly sorry to hear about your troubles, Denise. How exactly do you propose I help you?"

She stared at him; falling mute.

He cocked his head before shooting a brief, knowing look in Moran's direction. Jim had all the appearance of a rich young businessman; the tailored Hugo Boss suit, the silk tie from Hermes, the gold tie pin and matching cufflinks, and the shiny Italian leather loafers. The manner in which he held himself intimidated people more often than not. Moran had once seen a grown man piss himself just because Moriarty had frowned. Today, Moriarty was almost kind.

"I gather you want the hindrance of your father to go away."

She nodded. "Yeah, I do."

Moriarty gave a thoughtful nod in return. "I can't say as I blame you. Now Sebastian has vetted you personally, so I know you aren't a police informant which is good. Otherwise, you wouldn't be walking out that door." He stopped speaking as the girl went pale as milk. "Oh, don't worry, Denise, I'm not going to kill you. I am interested in helping you solve your dilemma, but we do have a quandary."

"What quandary?" Denise asked quietly.

He pulled one hand from his pocket and indicated the huge, sophisticated office they occupied. "The quandary of my fee, love. I don't work for free and you hardly look like you can afford my rates." Moriarty slid his hand back in his pocket. "Second hand clothes purchased from a consignment shop, low quality, but it's all you can afford on such a meager income as serving in a pub provides. Nice coiffure, so you splurge when possible to keep yourself looking decent. I need to know how I will be paid."

The girl looked almost ill and Sebastian briefly pitied her. She finally met Moriarty's eyes once more. "I have two thousand pounds, it's my life savings, but I'll give it to you."

Moriarty's brow rose. "Two thousand quid won't even pay for this consultation, which I'm not charging you for by the way."

Denise's hollow eyes fell to the ground even as her fingers moved to her blouse; she had the top button undone when Moriarty cleared his throat.

"Ah, no," he chuckled; the sound smooth and amused in the radiant early morning light filling the room. "You are delightful, and somewhat attractive, but I don't indulge in prostitution. No, Denise, you are thinking like a common dullard. What else do you have to offer me? Think of the old tale of Rumpelstiltskin."

She stared up at him as her hands fluttered down to rest on her thighs. "You want my firstborn child?"

Sebastian had to stifle his laugh behind a cough as Moriarty rolled his eyes.

"No," Moriarty stated in a less than pleased voice. "Let me be plain, Denise, so as to save us both time and aggravation. I will take care of the problem of your father in exchange for a future favor."

"You just want a favor?" Denise cast a suspicious look at the man before her. "What sort of favor do you want?"

Moriarty shrugged; his face a mask of pleasantry. "Oh I don't know," he began in a soft, jovial voice. Suddenly, he was frowning deeply. "Maybe I'll want you to push someone off a damned bridge!" Moriarty shouted. "That's the point you moron – the favor will be whatever I ask for in the _future_!"

Denise was staring at Moriarty in horror.

Sebastian remained rooted to the spot; uncertain whether Jim would ask him to put a bullet in the girl's brain.

Suddenly, Denise nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'll do it. A favor is fine if you get rid of my old man."

Moriarty's enraged expression instantly smoothed into the winning smile so many people were fooled by. "Lovely doing business with you, Miss Lamb. Please show yourself out. I will take care of all the little details concerning your father." He waited until Denise was at the door, her hand curled around the knob before speaking again. "You seem intelligent enough to know what will happen if you mention our business to anyone or if you refuse to uphold your end of the bargain."

Denise looked at him with terror in her large, dark eyes. "Yes, sir, I do."

Jim Moriarty nodded once. "Have a good day, Miss Lamb. I'll be in touch soon."

Sebastian frowned from his chair as the door clicked shut behind Denise Lamb. "You were a bit hard on her."

Moriarty snorted. "She was acting like an utter git. You know I despise people who muck about when I'm on a tight schedule." He crossed the room and sank into the comfortable leather chair behind his desk. "Did you deal with Mr. Lawrence?"

"He's dead," Sebastian confirmed quietly. "I have a bad feeling about this one, boss. Lawrence worked for George Marsden and Marsden has a reputation for brutality. The old sod isn't going to allow this sort of disrespect."

Jim turned his chair toward the window. "I'm aware, Seb. We cannot allow an outsider to come here and dictate our business to us or soon enough we'll be out of business. No, no, no. We have worked too long and too hard for what we have. Mr. Marsden might take a pot shot at us, but he has far more to lose if he risks his reputation."

Sebastian stood. "I should be going. We have that situation in Cheapside to deal with."

Moriarty didn't move a muscle. "By all means, take care of that. Have you met with the French programmer yet?"

Sebastian sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Bit of a loon, but she's damn good at her job."

"Excellent," Moriarty stated quietly. "I need to deal with the problem of my privacy and protecting Marilyn as soon as possible."

Sebastian wondered if Moriarty knew exactly what he was dealing with in George Marsden. The Moran family had dealings with Marsden stretching back decades and Sebastian knew the bloke to be an evil bastard. If there was one thing Sebastian Moran had learned over the last two years, it was that contradicting Moriarty was bad for a person's health.

He simply left.


End file.
